And join with me a moralising,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."

And what is this day's strong suggestion? "The passing moment's all we rest on!" - for what? what do we here?

Rest on
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amused with proverbed lore,

Add to our date one minute more?

A few days may a few years must
Repose us in the silent dust.

Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight :
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone ;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,

Or dark as Misery's woeful night.
Since, then, my honoured, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,

Let us the important now employ,

And live as those who never die.

Though you, with days and honours crowned

Witness that filial circle round

(A sight Life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse),
Others now claim your chief regard ;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY EVENING [1790].

"We have got a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New-year's Day evening, I gave him the following prologue, which he spouted to his audience with applause.” —– Burns to his brother Gilbert, 11th January, 1790.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste the more's the pity:

Though, by the by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home. But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good New Year! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:

The sage grave ancient coughed, and bade me

say:

"You're one year older this important day." If wiser, too—he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word “think!”

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way.
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
That though some by the skirt may try to
snatch him,

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled
brow,

And humbly begs you'll mind the important
Now!

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, though haply weak endeav

ours,

With grateful pride we own your many fa

vours;

And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

MY LOVELY NANCY.

TUNE- The Quaker's Wife.

About this time [the end of January, 1790,] the Clarinda correspondence was for a moment renewed. Burns closed his first letter with the following song, being, he says, one of his latest productions. From few men besides Burns could any lady have expected, along with an apology for deserting her only twenty months ago, a pleasant-faced canzonet of compliment declaring the world to be lightless without love.

THINE am I, my faithful fair,

Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Every pulse along my veins,
Every roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish :

Though despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away those rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure;
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.

What is life when wanting love?
Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.

PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, DUMFRIES.

Towards the conclusion of the theatrical season at Dumfries, Coila came once more to the aid of Mr. Manager Sutherland; but it cannot be said that her effusion was such as to hold forth a very favorable prognostic of dramatic effort.

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play and that new sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when imported?