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UPON

BURNS' GRANITE PUNCH-BOWL ;

IN THE POSSESSION OF AN EMINENT MERCANTILE GENTLEMAN,

AND PRODUCED ANNUALLY UPON THE POET'S BIRTH-DAY.

“ But knowledge to their eyes, her ample page,
“ Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll ;
“ Chill Penury repressed their noble rage;

“And froze the genial current of the soul.”

Gray.

Tho' many a relic yet remains,

To grace the festive board;

Drawn from some Noble's wide domains,

Or fam’d “ Cellini's” hoard.

A prouder trophy can we find,

Each pleasure to renew;

Than the poor vase, whence Burns' mind,

Its inspiration drew ?

LINES, ETC.

149

How oft at midnight's silent hour,

With grief and care opprest;
He found its more than magic power,

Each sorrow could arrest.

Could raise from poverty's cold soil,

To great Apollo's shrine,
And o'er the poor rewards of toil, ,

Bestow'd “the spark divine.

The feudal banner could recall,

With many a Highland Chief;

Whose gallant deeds and early fall,

Still wake the Patriot's grief.

6 O’er auld lang-syne," oh! heave a sigh,

(Rememb’ring joyous youth ;) As long-lost friends move pensive by,

Thro’ scenes of love and truth.

The Cotter's roof-tree,” why conceal?

With peace and comfort crown'd,

The ev’ning pray’r, the social meal,

(In rustic haunts still found.)

His mountain daisy" ne'er forget,

When vernal zephyrs blow; While Mem’ry pays the grateful debt,

Edina's offspring owe.

Then one brief hour let party cease,

Nor Whigs nor Tories scold;

Like Guelphs and Ghibelines at peace;

(Their Popes and Cæsars cold.)

O'er Ossian's legendary lore,

Or Scott's enchanting rhymes,

With Falstaff's bacchanalian roar,

We'll hear the midnight chimes.

Yet hapless Flora claims a tear,*

Lochiel's Chief a sigh, While Balmerino's tragic bier,

Not malice could decry.

* Flora M‘Donald—whose steady attachment to the young Pretender is too well-known to be repeated,

GRANITE PUNCH-BOWL.

151

Those scenes, (thank Heav'n !) long since have past,

Of turbulence and strife;
No more the trumpet's warlike blast,

Disturbs domestic life.

’Ere then we quit our Minstrel's lyre,

With each romantic dream;

Let one fond wish the bosom fire,

And form our latest theme.

“ Long may fair Brunswick rule our isle,

6 And Freedom's cause defend ;

“O’er Erin's shores may concord smile,

« And rival factions blend.

“ Long may their bark, our Merchants helm,

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“ Like our kind host of ev'ry realm,

“ The centre-prop—and stay.

“And may the Lares of his hearth,

“ These precincts ever guard, “ With roses strew our chequer'd path,

“ And crown the Ayrshire Bard.”

SONNET UPON A CLOSING YEAR.

“ We have seen the young and gay,

“ Carried where we all must lie ;

“ Miss we not the laughing voice?
“ Miss we not the speaking eye?"

Old Ballad.

“ Et in Arcadia ; Ego."

Where is many a lovely Belle,

Who in summer shone so gay?

In her dark and narrow cell,

Quickly mould’ring into clay.

Where is many a high-born youth,

First in Pleasure's flow'ry train;

Whisp’ring vows of love and truth,

Vows he ne'er will pour again?

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