(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?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he needna toil;

A fool and knave are plants of every soil.
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece :
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would shew the tragic Music in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?
How here, even here, he first unsheathed the
sword

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, Wrenched his dear country from the jaws of ruin?

O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman
though the phrase may seem un-

As able and as cruel as the devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,

But Douglasses were heroes every age: