Bless'd Highland bonnet! Once my proudest dress,
Now prouder still, Maria's temples press.
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war.
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;
The crafty colonel leaves the tartan'd lines,
For other wars, where he a hero shines:
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,
Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks;
Though there his heresies in church and state
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,

And dares the public like a noontide sun.
(What scandal called Maria's janty stagger
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?

Whose spleen, e'en worse than Burns's venom-when
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,

And pours his vengeance in the burning line,—
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine;
The idiot strum of vanity bemused,
And even th' abuse of poesy abused!

Who call'd her verse, a parish workhouse made
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ?)
A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose !
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep;
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour,
Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure ?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,

And make a vast monopoly of hell?

Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee worse;
The vices also, must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair-one satire's vengeance
hurls?
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ?

Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

ON A SUICIDE.1

EARTH'D up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble-
Poor silly wretch he's d-d himsel'
To save the Lord the trouble.

A FAREWELL.2

FAREWELL, dear Friend! may guid luck hit you,
And, 'mang her favourites admit you!

If e'er Detraction shore to smit you,

May nane believe him!

And ony Deil that thinks to get you,

Good Lord deceive him.

THE FAREWELL.

FAREWELL old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains
Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!

1 A melancholy person of the name of Glendinning, having taken away his own life, was interred at a place called "The Old Chapel," close beside Dumfries. My friend Dr. Copland Hutchinson happened to be walking out that way he saw Burns with his foot on the grave, his hat on his knee, and paper laid on his hat, on which he was writing. He then took the paper, thrust it with his finger into the red mould of the grave, and went away. This was the above epigram, and such was the Poet's mode of publishing it. -A. CUNNINGHAM.

2 The friend was Mr. John Kennedy,

Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft
Of my parental care;

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,

O then befriend my Jean!

When bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jeannie, must I part!
Thou weeping answ'rest, "No!"
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I, for thy sake, must go!
Thee Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much-indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!

All-hail then, the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles-

I'll never see thee more!

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY; ON
THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN
SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR
THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

FINTRY, my stay in worldly strife,
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life,

m?

Are ye as idle's I am
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,1
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings;

And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns,

And kissing barefit carlins.2

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode
Whistling his roaring pack abroad

Of mad unmuzzled lions;

2 Old women.

As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd

To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding;

But left behind him heroes bright,

Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner;

Heroes and heroines commix,

All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honour.

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the loves and graces :

She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps,
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,

Like Hecla streaming thunder:

Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,

And bared the treason under.

In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought

The wildest savage Tory:
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-waved his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!

While Maxwelton, that baron bold,

'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold,

And threaten'd worse damnation.

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd,
With these what Tory warriors clos'd,

Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons, extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.

What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate

Amid this mighty tulzie !
Grim Horror girn'd-pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple' shor'd,

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie.2

As highland crags by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurl down with crashing rattle:
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods;

Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly

Before th' approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour

Against the Buchan Bullers.3

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer of Charles

The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose !
Now death and hell engulf thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;

But Fate the word has spoken: For woman's wit and strength o' man, Alas! can do but what they can!

1 Throat.

The Tory ranks are broken.

2 The broil.

3 A rocky opening on the coast of Aberdeenshire.