high a compliment in his Address to Edinburgh, had been carried off by consumption, 17th June, 1790.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious Death so triumphed in a blow,
As that which laid the accomplished Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shewn,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is
known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye cease to charm Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immixed with reedy fens,
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes
stored,

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their

worth,

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail, And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, And not a Muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;

But, like the sun eclipsed at morning-tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care!

So decked the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare.

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

"The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's Reliques of English Poetry."— Burns, February, 1791.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring;

The mavis wild, wi' monie a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milkwhite is the slae ;

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets amang; But I, the queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang!

I was the queen o' bonny France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And monie a traitor there;

Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

blackbird

thrush

sloe

But as for thee, thou false woman!
My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae!
The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of wo Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son

my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine!

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!

look kindly

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!

O soon to me may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;

And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.

"You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.' When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets." - Burns to Mr. Cunningham, 12th March, 1791.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was

gray;

And as he was singing, the tears fast down

came,

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in weep the yerd: