(There is a variation to this song in which the first four lines of the second stanza run:

OI hae been at Crook-ie-den, My bo nie lad-die, High-land lad - die,

O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE.
(JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, 1792.)

O KENMURE's on and awa, Willie,

O Kenmure's on and awa;

An' Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord

That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie !

Success to Kenmure's band!
There's no a heart that fears a Whig,
That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie!
Here's Kenmure's health in wine!

There's ne'er a coward o' Kenmure's blude,
Nor yet o' Gordon's* line.

*The Viscount Kenmure is head of the Southern branch of the Gordons, as the Duke of Gordon was in the north-J. H.

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie,

O Kenmure's lads are men;

Their hearts and swords are metal true,
And that their foes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie,
They'll live or die wi' fame;
But sune, wi' sounding victorie,

May Kenmure's lord come hame!
Here's him that's far awa, Willie !
Here's him that's far awa!
And here's the flower that I loe best,
The rose that's like the snaw. *

know

soon

love

The

[The hand of Burns is very visible here; but it is impossible to say what portions of the song are old and what by him. tune is one of a peculiar class, of which there are several having a marked family likeness, and all popular. Of these "The Campbells are Comin," and "Bide by the Bonnets o' blue," may be mentioned.

The Right Hon. William George, Viscount Kenmure, was Commander-in-chief of the Chevalier's forces in the south-west of Scotland, in 1715. At the head of two hundred horsemen, he formed a junction with the troops under General Forster, and they marched into Preston in Lancashire. Here he was compelled to surrender a prisoner at discretion, on 13th Nov. 1745, and early on the following month, he and many of his unfortunate followers were conducted to London, where they were subjected to great indignities. Lord Kenmure was afterwards tried, and beheaded on Tower-hill, 24th Feb. 1716.]

(The forfeited estates were bought back by the widow, and from her descended to their son. Burns, during his Galloway tour in company with Mr. Syme, was entertained at Kenmure Castle, the romantic family seat, on the banks of the river Ken, by the grandson of the attainted peer, to whom the title was restored in 1824. Mr. Syme, in a letter to Dr. Currie says, that the poet thought so highly of this baronial seat, that he contemplated a poetical description of it.-J. H.)

* A white rose was the Jacobite badge. Compare the fine song commencing :"There grows a bonie brier-bush

In our kail-yard,

And bonie were the blossoms o't

In our kail-yard.”—J. H.

EPISTLE TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ. OF TERRAUGHTY,

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

(CROMEK, 1808.)

HEALTH to the Maxwell's veteran Chief!
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspired, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf,

This natal morn,

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,

Scarce quite half-worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven,
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow

proof

every

ill-wishers

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May Desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,

Nine miles an hour,

Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,

In brunstane stoure. brimstone dust

many

But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men, and lasses bonie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie, gentle careful
In social glee,

Wi' mornings blythe, and e'enings funny,

Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the deil, he daurna steer ye:
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye;
For me, shame fa' me,

old good

fellow dare not disturb

If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, next
While BURNS they ca' me.

foes

befall

do not

call

[John Maxwell, of Terraughty and Munches, near Dumfries, was seventy-one years old when Burns thus addressed him, and although his earthly pilgrimage was not extended by forty-nine years more, according to the poet's wish, he eventually reached the age of ninety-four, dying on Burns's birthday, 1814. Chambers informs us that he was descended, at a comparatively small number of removes, from the gallant and faithful Lord Herries, who on bended knees entreated Queen Mary to prosecute Bothwell, as the murderer of Darnley, and who subsequently fought for her at Langside.

The original MS. of this Epistle is now in the Poet's Monument at Edinburgh.]

SECOND EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY.

5TH OCTOBER, 1791.

(EDINBURGH ED., 1793.)

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest);
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
(It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale)
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain :

The lion and the bull thy care have found,

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground;

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell;
The envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
Thy minions kings defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen subtile wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug;
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes-her dreaded spear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard!
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still:
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not, Amalthea's horn :
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur;
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart:

Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name;
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose :

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear; Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,

The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life: