sweet native gracefulness: he is tender, and he is vehement; yet without constraint or too visible effort; he melts the heart, or inflames it with a power which seems habitual and familiar to him. Observe with what a prompt and eager force he grasps his subject, be it what it may! How he fixes, as it were, the full image of the matter in his eye-full and clear in every lineament; and catches the real type and essence of it, amid a thousand accidents and superficial circumstances, no one of which misleads him."

"It required," remarks Wilson, "less magnanimity in one of the old Romans to lay aside the consular gown and return to the plough-for then such was the spirit of the whole nation-than in Burns, suddenly invested with the garb of glory, to withdraw from the gaze of admiration and wonder; and, as if genius had never tuned his heart-strings to poetry, nor inspiration touched his lips with fire, to take his place again on the corn-field among the reapers; or, in his own person, to realize the picture of the cotter, which years before he had drawn at his work, and which, when repeated by him in the silence of nature to his brother, had melted the strong man into tears."

SCOTCH DRINK.

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink,

That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief an' care;

There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more."

SOLOMON'S PROVERB, Xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru❜ken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease an' beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin';
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin' ;
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin';

But, oil'd by thee,

The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin',

Wi' rattlin' glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair

VOL. II.

Wi' gloomy smile.

P

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed,
Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;
Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.

Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspir'd,

When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in,
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin' on a new-year morning

In cog or bicker,

An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
An' gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare to see thee fizz an' freath

I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death

At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,

Till block an' studdie ring an' reel

Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; Wae worth the name!

Nae howdie gets a social night,

Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley-bree

Cement the quarrel!

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,

To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,

E'er spier her price.