But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us the Hanover stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas' as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground!

Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound, To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night;

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

ON A YOUNG LADY

RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE INFANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE.

Addressed to Miss Charlotte Hamilton, and intended for publication in Johnson's Museum. The

tune was a beautiful Highland air, entitled Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh, or the Pretty Milkmaid.

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the

Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the

dew,

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud

rose;

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS.

The Lord President of the Court of Session (Dundas) died on the 13th December, and it seems to have been suggested to Burns by Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, that he should bring his Muse into play for the celebration of the event. There must have been some reason beyond the merits of the President for Hay having advised this step, and for the proud soul of Burns having stooped to adopt it. He set to bewailing the decease of the great man in the usual style of the venal bards of the age of patronage, and, as might be expected, with no great success.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering

rocks;

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves,
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;

Where to the whistling blast and water's roar

Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,

Her doubtful balance eyed, and swayed her

rod;

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow

She sank, abandoned to the wildest wo.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry.

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlistened tale,
And much-wronged Misery pours th' unpitied
wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspirèd strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!

Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

A FAREWELL TO CLARINDA,

ON LEAVING EDINBURGH.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie,
Deprived of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy?

We part-but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!

No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;

And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?