Looked on the fading yellow woods That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewailed his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He leaned him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mouldering down with years; His locks were bleachèd white with time, "Ye scattered birds that faintly sing, But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. "I am a bending, agèd tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hold of earth is gane: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, "I've seen sae monie changefu' years, I bear alane my lade o' care, Lie a' that would my sorrows share. "And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my agèd ken, "Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of wo and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb,, Accept this tribute from the bard Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom. "In Poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turned the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. "O why has worth so short a date, A day to me so full of wo! O had I met the mortal shaft "The bridegroom may forget the bride, Was made his wedded wife yestreen; last night The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!" LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART. OF WHITEFOORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, To thee this votive-offering I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou valued'st, I the patron loved; His worth, his honour, all the world approved: We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY. From this time forth we are to see a chronic exasperation of spirit, affecting the life and conversation of the luckless bard. We get but slight and casual glimpses of the cause of all this acrimony; but I am On assured that it would be a great mistake to attribute it wholly, or in any considerable part, to a mere jarring between the sensitive spirit of the poet and the rude contact of the worldly scene into which he was plunged. Barns did not want for a certain worldly wisdom and hardiness. His poetical powers had not in themselves exposed him to any serious evils. On the contrary, he was indebted to them for any advance in the social scene which he ever made, and even for such endowments of fortune as had befallen him. Neither was Burns so unworthily regarded by either high or low in his own day and place, as to have much occasion for complaint on that score. the contrary, he had obtained the respectful regard of many of the very choicest men and women of his country. Whenever he appeared in aristocratic circles, his acknowledged genius, and the charms of his conversation, gave him a distinction not always readily yielded to mere wealth and rank. No: we have to look elsewhere for an explanation of the mystery. It seems to have mainly lain in the reckless violence of some of his passions, by the consequences of which he was every now and then exposed to humiliations galling to his pride. It was a refuge to his wounded feelings, to suppose that these passions were essentially connected with his poetical character. [Summer, 1791.] LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg, |