In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; Detraction's eyes no aim can gain Her winning powers to lessen : And fretful envy grins in vain, The poison'd tooth to fasten. Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth, The destinies intend her; SONG. He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the TUNE-"The King of France, he rade a Race brac His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. I red, &c. They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.I red, &c. AMANG the trees where humming oees Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, SONG. TUNE-"John Anderson my Jo." ONE night as I did wander, *This was one of the Poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before lits first publication. And as he was singin' thir words he did say, There's nae life like the Ploughman in the month o' sweet May The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest, [breast, And mount to the air wi' the dew on her And wi' the merry Ploughman she'll whistle and sing, Ard at night she'll return to her nest back again. SONG. THE winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, And the small birds sing on every tree; Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, Since my true love is parted from me. The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, But my true love is parted from me. THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE ΤΟ ROBERT BURNS. February, 1787 My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 1 hafflins doubt, it is na true man, Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch, He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, As get a single line of Virgil. An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes O' Willie P-t and Charlie F-x. Our great men a' sae weel descrive, An' how to gar the nation thrive, Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them, An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, Ye are a funny blade, I swear; That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan, or book could make, Or sing a sang at least. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide I turn'd my weeding-heuk aside, My envy e'er could raise, But still the elements o' sang She rous'd the forming strain At ev'ry kindling keek, Hale to the set, each guid chiel says, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, She, honest woman, may think shame, |