Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,
By Passion driven;

But yet the light that led astray
Was light from Heaven.

"I taught thy manners painting strains,
The loves, the wants of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains
Thy fame extends;

And some, the pride of Coila's plains,
Become thy friends.

"Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;

Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
Warm on the heart.

"Yet, all beneath the unrivalled rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;

Though large the forest's monarch throws
His army shade,

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows
Adown the glade.

"Then never murmur nor repine;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,
Nor king's regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,
A rustic bard.

"To give my counsels all in one-
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;
Preserve the dignity of man,

With soul erect;

And trust, the universal plan

Will all protect.

"And wear thou this "--she solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head:
The polished leaves, and berries red,
Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled
In light away.

ADDITIONAL STANZAS OF "THE VISION."

A manuscript in Burns' handwriting, containing additional stanzas of "The Vision," is now in the possession of Mr John Dick, bookseller, Ayr; it seems to be the manuscript sent by Burns to Mrs Stewart of Stair, when contemplating his West-Indian voyage.

By Mr Dick's kind permission we are enabled to give the additional stanzas here.

AFTER 18th stanza of printed copies :

With secret throes I marked that earth,
That cottage, witness of my birth;

And near I saw, bold issuing forth
In youthful pride,

A Lindsay, race of noble worth,

Famed far and wide.

Where, hid behind a spreading wood,
An ancient Pict-built mansion stood,
I spied, among an angel brood,

A female pair;

Sweet shone their high maternal blood
And father's air.

An ancient tower to memory brought
How Dettingen's bold hero fought;
Still far from sinking into nought,
It owns a lord

Who "far in western"* climates fought,
With trusty sword.

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade
Stalked round his ashes lowly laid,

I saw a martial race portrayed

In colours strong;

Bold, sodger-featured, undismayed,
They stalked along.

Among the rest I well could spy
One gallant, graceful, martial boy,
The sodger sparkled in his eye,

A diamond water;

I blest that noble badge with joy
That owned me frater.t

After the 20th stanza:

Near by arose a mansion fine,

The seat of many a Muse divine;

Not rustic Muses such as mine,

With holly crowned,

But th' ancient, tuneful, laurelled Nine,
From classic ground.

I mourned the card that Fortune dealt,
To see where bonny Whitefoords dwelt;
But other prospects made me melt,

That village near;

There Nature, Friendship, Love I felt,

Fond mingling dear.

(Sundrum) (Stair)

(the Montgomeries)

(Auchinleck)

(Ballochmyle)

(Mauchline)

Hail! Nature's pang, more strong than death!
Warm Friendship's glow, like kindling wrath!
Love, dearer than the parting breath

Of dying friend!

These words are written over the original in another hand.

Captain James Montgomery, Master of St James's Lodge, Torbolton, to which

the author has the honour to belong.-B.

"Not even" with life's wild devious path,
Your force shall end!

The power that gave the soft alarms,
In blooming Whitefoord's rosy charms,
Still threats the tiny-feathered arms,
The barbèd dart,

While lovely Wilhelmina warms

After the 21st

The coldest heart.t

Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound, (Auchinskleth)
And Irwine, marking out the bound,

Enamoured of the scenes around,

Slow runs his race,

A name I doubly honoured found,

With knightly grace.

(Caprington)

Originally written "only."

Miss Wilhelmina Alexander, the "Bonny Lass of Ballochmyle."

SCOTCH DRINK.

"Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
And liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief and care;
There let him boose and deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts,
And minds his griefs no more."

LET other poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, and wines, and drucken Bacchus, And crabbit names and stories wrack us,

And grate our lug,

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

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

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
And aits set up their awnie horn,
And peas and 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 tumbling in the boilin' flood

Wi' kail and beef;

crabbed, vex

ear

barley

twisting, turn

cream

foam

valleys

oats, bearded

blessings on

chews, cud

supple cakes, choice

cabbage

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shine's chief.

Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin'

belly

Though life's a gift no worth receivin',

When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin';
But, oiled by thee,

pain

Thou art the life o' public haunts;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants?

Even godly meetings o' the saunts,

By thee inspired,

When gaping they besiege the tents,
Are doubly fired.

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

In cog or bicker,

And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in.
And gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
Oh rare! to see thee fizz and freath,
I' the lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death
At every chap.

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

Till block and studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.

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

Cement the quarrel!

Its 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,

And hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash!
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash,
O' half his days;

And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

without

saints

froths smoking

wooden vessels

spirits savoury sugar

implements froth eared cup blacksmith

blow

iron

bony

anvil

mad

juice

blame

many, wet, throat

ask

Woc sickness

deprives, stupid, [fool

foes

moneyless

Wi' bitter, dearth fu' wines to mell,

high-priced, meddle

Or foreign gill.