But, gien the body half an e'e,
Nine Ferriers wad done better!

Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very senses doited.

given

tottered

stupefied

Do what I dought to set her free,
My saul lay in the mire;
Ye turned a neuk—I saw your e'e-
She took the wing like fire!

could

The mournfu' sang I here enclose
In gratitude I send you;

And [wish and] pray in rhyme sincere,
A' gude things may attend you!1

VERSES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep,

1 The original manuscript of this piece is in the possession of Miss Grace Aiken, Ayr.

My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famed Breadálbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample
sides;

The outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,

The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;
The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste ;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam

*

*

*

*

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

*

*

*

Here Poesy might wake her Heaven-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative fire; Here to the wrongs of Fate half reconciled, Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan,

*

And injured Worth forget and pardon man.

*

*

*

*

THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.

TUNE-The Birks of Abergeldy.

The beautiful falls of Moness, at Aberfeldy, excited the poet to verse; but on this occasion it came in a lyric form, for he remembered a simple old ditty, called the Birks of Abergeldy, referring to a place in Aberdeenshire, and struck by the nearly identical name of this spot, his thoughts fell into harmony with the tune possessing his mind.

CHORUS.

BONNY lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go
?
Bonny lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy?

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays;
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Or lightly flit on wanton wing

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

glances

The little birdies blithely sing,

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, hang

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, woods
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, cascades
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

THE

HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER 1 TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear
Wo ne'er assails in vain;
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,

1"The first object of interest that occurs upon the public road after leaving Blair, is a chasm in the hill on the right hand, through which the little river Bruar falls over a series of beautiful cascades. Formerly, the Falls of the Bruar were unadorned by wood; but the poet Burns, being conducted to

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumpin' 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.

staring

Wi' half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Even as I was he shored me; But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, wept - vexation As Poet Burns came by,

That to a bard I should be seen

promised

see them (September 1787,) after visiting the Duke of Athole, recommended that they should be invested with that necessary decoration. Accordingly, trees have been thickly planted along the chasm, and are now far advanced to maturity. Throughout this young forest a walk has been cut, and a number of fantastic little grottos erected for the conveniency of those who visit the spot. The river not only makes several distinct falls, but rushes on through a channel, whose roughness and haggard sublimity adds greatly to the merits of the scene, as an object of interest among tourists." Picture of Scotland.