The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
Twin d amorous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear
My Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

LINES ON

AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day,
Sae far I sprackled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at druken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son,
Up higher yet my bonnet;
An' sic a Lord-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r.
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,
And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.