For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest Man the warl' saw,*

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely Dears
Her noblest work she classes, O.
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.

[This (leaving out the absurd chorus) is a very exquisite production, and seems to point to the period when The Lament, Despondency, and Ode to Ruin were composed. The similarity between the sixth verse and a well-known passage in the Mountain-Daisy is very noticeable; and a like similarity between the two closing lines of the preceding verse and a passage in Gray's Elegy is also apparent:"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill."

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS. †

And maun I still on Menie‡ doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e!

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be! §

* In 1794, the author changed this to "warl' e'er saw."

This Chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the Author's.-(R. B. 1787.)

Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne.-(R. B. 1787.)

This, beyond all the songs of Burns, is spoiled by the chorus; and the best of it is, he tells us that the chorus is not his own, but put in to gratify a friend.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, &c.

The merry Ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie Seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,

The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The Sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

Come Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my chearless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e!
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be.

SONG.

TUNE-Roslin Castle.

[Professor Walker, who was introduced to Burns in Edinburgh shortly after his arrival there, at the close of the year 1786, says, "I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished poems, and he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circumstances in which it had been composed, more striking than the poem itself. He had left Dr. Lawrie's family, after a visit which he expected to be the last, and on his way home had to cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was strongly affected by parting for ever with a scene where he had tasted so much elegant and social pleasure; and, depressed by the contrasted gloom of his prospects, the aspect of nature harmonized with his feelings. It was a lowering and heavy evening in the end of autumn: the wind was up, and whistled through the rushes and long spear-grass, which bent before it: the clouds were driving across the sky; and cold, pelting showers at intervals, added discomfort of body to cheerlessness of mind. Under these circumstances, and in this frame of mind, Burns composed his poem."]

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The Hunter now has left the moor,
The scatt'red coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, pressed with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billows roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Tho' Death in ev'ry shape appear,
The Wretched have no more to fear:

But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

I

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

SONG.

TUNE-Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly, &c.

[This is not a happy production, although, doubtless, it would pass very well among his youthful companions at Tarbolton, when the table was in a roar, after a Lodge Meeting. It looks more like an attempted imitation of an English song, than a spontaneous burst of the author's genius. He tells us that a Collection of English Songs was his vade mecum wherever he went, and in a standard Collection, dating from the year 1751, called "Yair's Charmer," we find (at page 293, Vol. I.) a song which very likely was in Burns' eye as a model. We also see a trace of the same model in one of the last songs he ever composed-the one beginning, "Awa' wi' your witchcraft." Take the following sample:

"My Chloe had dimples and smiles I must own,
But tho' she could smile, yet in truth she could frown;
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,

Did you e'er see a frown in a bumper of wine?

Her lilies and roses were just in their prime,
Yet lilies and roses are conquered by time;
But in wine, from its age such a benefit flows,
That we like it the better, the older it grows.

She, too, might have poison'd the joy of my life
With nurses and babies, and squalling and strife;
But my wine neither nurses nor babies can bring-
And a big-bellied bottle's a mighty good thing."]

No Churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No Statesman nor Soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

The Peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the Peasant, tho' ever so low;

But a club of good fellows, like those that are there,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the Squire on his brother-his horse;
There Centum per Centum, the Cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air,
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

'Life's cares they are comforts'*- -a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair;
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge:

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May ev'ry true Brother of th' Compass and Square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when pressed † with care.

* Young's Night Thoughts.-(R. B. 1787.) † Altered, in 1794, to "harassed.'

THE FOREGOING SONG CLOSES THE LIST OF PIECES ADDED IN THE AUTHOR'S SECOND EDITION.