ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S RE- And now Thou hast restored our State, STORATION FROM ILLNESS. [The following lines were enclosed in a letter written by Burns on the 4th of April, 1789, to Mrs. Dunlop, the 23rd of that month, St.Georges Day, having been especially set apart as a day of National Thanksgiving for the King's recovery, when His Majesty himself attended in person in St. Paul's Cathedral.] O SING a new song to the Lord, Make, all and every one, A joyful noise, even for the King His restoration. The sons of Belial in the land Did set their heads together; "Come, let us sweep them off," said they, "Like an o'erflowing river." They set their heads together, I say, Thou madest strong two chosen ones, And him-among the Princes chief The Judge that 's mighty in thy law- Pity our Kirk also; For she by tribulations Is now brought very low. Consume that high-place Patronage, And in Thy fury burn the book— Now hear our pray'r, accept our song, -0 VERSES ABOUT NAETHING. [These verses, first published in 1868 by Alexander Smith, as addressed extempore by Burns to Gavin Hamilton, were afterwards proved to have been unquestionably his, by being found among his authentic holographs in the Glenriddel Manuscripts. The effusion was obviously penned by the Poet when he was meditating his departure from Scotland in the autumn of 1786 for the Island of Jamaica.] To you, Sir, this summons I've sent, Pray whip till the pownie is fraething; But if you demand what I want, Yet they, even they, with all their Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, strength, Began to faint and fail; Even as two howling, ravening wolves To dogs do turn their tail. Th' ungodly o'er the just prevailed, For idly just living and breathing, While people of every degree Are busy employed about-naething. Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, And grumble his hurdies their claith ing; He'll find, when the balance is cast, He's gane to the devil for-naething. The chill behest disarmed his Muse, Till Passion all impatient grew : He wrote, and hinted for excuse, Owns not the lap of earth where rests the royal head! His wretched refuge, dark despair, "T was 'cause he 'd nothing else to While ravening wrongs and woes pursue; And distant far the faithful few Who would his sorrows share. II. False flatterer, Hope, away! Nor think to lure us as in days of yore: We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, To prove our loyal truth-we can no more; And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, Submissive, low, adore. Ye honoured, mighty Dead Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, Your King, your Country, and her Laws, From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led, And fell a martyr in her arms What breast of northern mould but warms?— To bold Balmerino's undying name, Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim: Not unrevenged your fate shall lie, Awake at last the unsparing Power : Till, crashing deep, it whelms the cottage in the vale; But he who should the imperial purple So Vengeance' arm, ensanguined, strong, wear Shall with resistless might assail— Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lowly Pardon my transport, gentle shade, fold weight repay. III. Perdition! baleful child of Night, Of Stuart's royal race: Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell, The blood-notes of the chase: The tools of faction, and the nation's Hark, how the cry grows on the wind! vour: See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey, Such havock, howling all abroad, Their utter ruin bring- ELEGY. [Included by Burns among the poems in the Dunlop Manuscript.] STRAIT is the spot and green the sod, From whence my sorrows flow, And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below. And solitary now. Not one poor stone to tell thy name, From thy loved friends, when first thy Was taught by Love to glow, At the last limit of our isle, Washed by the western wave, Touched by thy fate, a thoughtful bard Sits by thy lonely grave: Pensive he eyes, before him spread The deep, outstretched and vast; Him, too, the stern impulse of fate And the same rapid tide shall whelm His grief-worn heart, with truest joy, O my dear maid, my Mary, when To his beloved repose? 131 |