Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the keystane1 o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss ;
A running-stream they darena cross!
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:

deuce

endeavor

The carline claught her by the rump, snatched at And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed!
Whene'er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys ower dear:
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

1 It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running-stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. - B.

STANZAS ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHU MOUS CHILD,

BORN UNDEF PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.

Mrs. Dunlop had undergone a severe domestic af fliction. Her daughter Susan had married a French gentleman named Henri, of good birth and fortune, and the young couple lived happily at Loudoun Castle, in Ayrshire, when (June 22, 1790) the gentleman sank under the effects of a severe cold, leaving his wife pregnant.

SWEET floweret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' monie a prayer,

What heart o' stane wad thou na more,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea

Chill on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the sheltering tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving shower,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of wo and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother-plant,
And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourished, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer-morn;
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,
Unsheltered and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscathed by ruffian hand,

And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

pangs

November, 1790.

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO.

"I have these several months been hammering at an elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get no further than the following fragment." Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 23d January,

1791.

This beautiful creature, to whom Burns paid so

high a compliment in his Address to Edinburgh, had been carried off by consumption, 17th June, 1790.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumphed in a blow,
As that which laid the accomplished Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shewn,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is
known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immixed with reedy fens, Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stored,

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
I fly, ye with my soul accord.

To you

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail, And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, And not a Muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;

But, like the sun eclipsed at morning-tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care!

So decked the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

"The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry."Burns, February, 1791.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams.

VOL. II.

18