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But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war-
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art-
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream,

[beam ;
Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;

Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,
And Harley rouses all the God in man.
When well-form'd taste, and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
Can only charm us in the second place),
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet,
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land!
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire;
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's, chain ;
Still self-dependent in her native shore,

Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more!

TRAGIC FRAGMENT.1

"ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch,
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still
my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere, tho' unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor

1 In my early years nothing less would serve me than courting the Tragic Muse. I was, I think, about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the out

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin.
O but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you, forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injur'd God! thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abus'd
As far surpassing other common villains,
As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more."

O CAN YE LABOUR LEA.

O CAN ye labour lea, young man,
An' can ye labour lea;
Gae back the gate ye cam' again,
Ye'se never scorn me.

I feed a man at Martinmas,
Wi' airl'-pennies three;
An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him,
He couldna labour lea.

The stibble rig is easy plough'd,
The fallow land is free;

But wha wad keep the handless coof,
That couldna labour lea?

gress.

O THOU, in whom we live and move,
Who mad'st the sea and shore;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore.

And if it please thee, Pow'r above!
Still grant us with such store,

The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.

lines of a tragedy, forsooth: but the bursting of a cloud of family misto..
tunes, which had for some time threatened us, prevented my further pro-
In those days I never wrote down anything; so, except a speech or
two, the whole has escaped my memory. The following, which I most dis-
tinctly remember, was an exclamation from a great character-great in
occasional instances of generosity, and daring at times in villanies.-R. B.
1 Silver penny given as hiring money.

Songs.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.1

TUNE-MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL TO BANFF.

'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd, passing by,
"Behold the Lass o' Ballochmyle!"

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in a lonely wild:
But Woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd'

By the bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle.

1 "The Lass of Ballochmyle" was Miss Alexander, whose brother had recently come to reside in Ballochmyle House, of which the pleasure grounds extend along the north bank of the Ayr. The farm of Burns, Mossgiel, was in the immediate neighbourhood. He inclosed a copy of the song to Miss Alexander, and was extremely indignant at the lady's silence respecting his letter. Of the verses his own opinion was justly high :-"I think myself," he told Mrs. Stewart of Stair," it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of Nature's scenes -a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of-an amiable, beautiful young woman.'

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O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain:
Thro' weary Winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:
Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks, or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine,

With the bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle.1

SONG OF DEATH.2

A GAELIC AIR.

Scene-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the song.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the broad setting sun!

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties,
Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe!
Go, frighten the coward and slave!

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou for the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
Our King and our Country to save-

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not die with the brave!

1 Under the above song is written "Miss Willie Alexander."

2 When the pressing nature of public affairs called, in 1795, for a general arming of the people, Burns appeared in the ranks of the "Dumfries Volunteers," employed his poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism; and at this season of alarm he brought forward the following hymn.-(CURRIE.) The song was written in 1791.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE! O.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time1 is near, my jo ;
And owsen2 frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie, O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie! O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie! O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie! O.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris that wons3 in

yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart, as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; `
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wound I must hide that will soon be my dead.

1 Time of collecting the sheep.

2 Oxen.

3 Dwells.

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