5 It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ·
But now he's quat the spurtle blade,

And dog-skin wallet

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

6 He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont guid ;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood.

7 Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

8 Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philabeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig,

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jokteleg,

Or lang kail gullie.

9 But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three

Guid fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

10 Now, by the powers o' verse and prose,
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,1 A VERY YOUNG

LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and

Blooming in thy early May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety shower!
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' poisonous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

gay,

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,

Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings;

10

Miss Cruikshanks :' daughter of William Cruikshanks, a teacher in the High School, Edinburgh.

Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

19

SONG.

1 ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

2 Yet in thy presence, lovely fair!
To hope may be forgiven;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of heaven.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD,1 Esq.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

1 SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms—

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

''M'Leod:' of Raasay. His sister Isabella was a favourite of Burns, who composed on her his song, 'Roaring winds around her blowing.'

2 Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

3 Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smiled;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguiled.

4 Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

5 Were it in the poet's power,
Strong as he shares the grief
That pierces Isabella's heart,
To give that heart relief!

6 Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

7 Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.1

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

1 MY LORD, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain :
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

2 The lightly-jumping glowrin' trouts
That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

3 Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,

That to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
E'en as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

''Bruar Water:' Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque anl beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs, -B. This defect has iong ago been supplied.