In rueful apprehension entered O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art:
So grim, deformed with horrors, entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The Pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipped his right,
Baptized him Eu, and kicked him from his sight.
WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD IN THE HERMITAGE BELONG-
ING TO THE DUKE OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OF ABERFELDY.
WHOE'ER thou art these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in
That fell remorse, a conscience bleeding,
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours;
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers
That lust and pride,
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.
I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that Honour's sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceived who trusted
To love or friend;
And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away
My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
1 First published in Hogg and Motherwell's edition, but considered doubtful.
This rock my shield, when storms are blowing;
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing
My simple food;
But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert wood.
Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot than e'er I felt before in
A palace-and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,
Each night and morn, with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh,—
"Let me, O Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorse's throb, or loose desire;
And when I die,
Let me in this belief expire-
To God I fly
Stranger, if full of youth and riot,
And yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The hermit's prayer;
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care;
If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,
Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE,
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bear't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by fell death was nearly nicket:
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turned a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I 'll take a care o't
A tentier way:
Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!
HUMID seal of soft affections,
Tenderest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connexions,
Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When lingering lips no more must join,
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling and sincere as thine!
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.
STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my prologue business slily hinted.
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
66 I know your bent these are no laughing times:
Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears-
Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears-
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?
I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,
"D'ye think," said I, "this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant, gloomy Master Poet!"
Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;
I also think—so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoyed.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doomed to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur'st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck-
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we 're merry, may we still be wise.
INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast-
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost !-
That we lost, did I say? nay, by heaven, that we found;
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.
The next in succession, I'll give you-The King!
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing !
And here's the grand fabric, Our Free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution;
And longer with politics not to be crammed,
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damned;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!
1 This toast was given by Burns at a public dinner held on the anniversary of Rodney's Victory, April 12, 1782.
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