Tired of the busy, bustling throng,
I wandered forth along the vale;
To list the widowed blackbird's song,
And breathe the balmy evening gale.

I leaned by Brothock's limpid tide,

The green birch waving o'er my head; While night winds through the willows sighed, That wept above their watery bed;

'Twas there, the Muse without control, Essayed on fluttering wing to rise; When listless languor seized my soul, And drowsy slumbers sealed my eyes:

In Morpheus' arms supinely laid,

My vagrant Fancy roved astray; When lo! in radiant robes arrayed, A spirit winged its airy way.

In dumb surprise, and solemn awe,

I wondering gazed, when by my side A maid of matchless grace I saw,

Arrayed in more than mortal pride;

Her eye was like the lightning's gleam,

That can through boundless space pervade, But sorrow seemed to shade its beam,

And pallid grief her cheek o'erspread:

A flowery wreath, with bays entwined,
Fresh blooming from her girdle hung;
And on the daisied bank reclined,

She touched a Harp, for sadness strung:

The trembling strings-the murmuring rillThe hollow breeze that breathed betweenResponsive echo from the hill

All joined to swell the solemn scene!

The maid, in accents sadly sweet,

To sorrow gave unbounded sway; My fluttering heart forgot to beat, While thus she poured the plaintive lay.

"I am the Muse of Caledon,

From earliest ages aye admired; Through her most distant corners known, Oft has my voice her sons inspired.

"My charms have fired a royal breast,
A King who Scotia's sceptre bore;
I soothed his soul, with trouble pressed,
When captive on a hostile shore:

"My bays have on a Soldier's brow,
Amidst his verdant laurels twined;
Inspired his soul with martial glow,

And called his country's wrongs to mind:

"The warblings of my Harp have won A mitred Son from Holy See; Who oft from morn to setting sun,

Would hold a Carnival with me:

"But chief of all the tuneful train,

Was BURNS-my latest-fondest care! I nursed him on his native plain; And now, his absence is-despair! "I hailed his happy natal hour, And o'er his infant cradle hung; Ere Fancy's wild, unbounded power, Or Reason's earliest bud was sprung.

"I saw the young ideas rise

Successive, in his youthful mind; Nor could the peasant's garb disguise The kindling flame, that lay confined.

"Oft have I met him on the dale,

Companion of the thoughtless throng; And led him down the dewy vale,

To carol o'er some artless song.

"Unseen by all, but him alone,

I cheered his labours through the day; And when the rural task was done,

We sought some wild sequestered way;

"Midst Coila's hills, or woodlands wild,

By Stinchar's banks, or Lugar's stream, There would I place my darling child,

And soothe him with some pleasing dream.

"These haunts, to him were blissful bowers,
Where all the soul was unconfined;
And Fancy culled her choicest flowers,
To warm her youthful poet's mind.

"Nursed on the healthful happy plains, Where Love's first blush from Virtue springs, 'Twas Nature taught the heartfelt strains, That o'er the vassaled Cot he sings.

"Keen Poverty with withered arms,

Compressed him in her cold embrace; And mental grief's ungracious harms

Had furrowed o'er his youthful face.

"Yet there, the dear delightful flame

Which rules the breast with boundless sway; Resistless, fired his melting frame,

And taught the love-lamenting lay.

"A friend to Mirth, and foe to Care, Yet formed to feel for worth oppressed; His sympathetic soul could share

The woes that wrung a brother's breast.

"Ah! gentle Bard! thy tenderest tear Was o'er a hapless Orphan shed! But who shall thy sweet prattlers cheer, Now that a green-turf wraps thy head? "He who can still the raven's voice,

And deck the lily's breast like snow, Can make thy orphan train rejoice,

And soothe thy widow's song of woe.

"Ye souls of sympathetic mind,

Whom smiling Plenty deigns to crown, Yours be the task, their wounds to bind, And make their happiness your own.

"To banish Want, and pale-faced Care, To wipe the tear from Misery's eye, Is such a bliss as Angels share,

And tell with joy above the sky!

"Where are the thrilling strains of woe
That echoed o'er Glencairn's sad urn?
And where is now Oppression's foe,
Who taught, that "Man was made to mourn?”

"Why when his morning calmly smiled,

Did Hope forbode a lengthened day? My promised joys are now beguiled,

Since darkness hides my darling's clay!

"Yet rest in peace, thou gentle shade!

Although the narrow-house' be thine; No pious rite shall pass unpaid,

No hands unhallowed stain thy shrine.

"The blighting breath of venomed Scorn Shall harmless round thy mansion rave; Though Envy plant her poignant thorn,

It ne'er shall bud above thy grave.

"The stagnant soul, unmoved, may hear Of worth it ne'er was formed to feel; The selfish heart, with haughty sneer, Unblushing, boast a breast of steel:

"Yet sympathy, that loves to sigh,
And Pity, sweet celestial maid,
And Genius, with her eagle eye,
Shall hover round thy hallowed shade.

"The torrent dashing down the steep, The wild wave foaming far below, In Nature's notes for thee shall weep, With all the majesty of woe!

"When winter howls across the plain, And spreads a thick obscuring gloom, His winds on Coila shall complain,

And hoarsely murmur o'er thy tomb!

"There, virgin Spring shall first be seen, To deck with flowers thy dewy bed; And Summer, robed in richest green, Shall hang her roses o'er thy head.

"When Autumn calls thy fellow swains (Companions now, alas! no more!) To reap the plenty of their plains,' Their mingling sighs shall thee deplore.

"O pour a tear of tenderest woe, Ye bards who boast congenial fire; Let sympathetic wailings flow,

And Sorrow's song attune the lyre.

"Ye warblers, flitting on the wind,
Chaunt forth your saddest plaintive strain;
And weep-(for ye have lost a friend),
Ye little wanderers of the plain!

"This garland, for my bard entwined,
No brow but his shall ever wear;
Around his turf these flowers I'll bind,
And wet them nightly with a tear!
"While dews descend upon his tomb,

So long the Muse shall love his name;
Nor shall this wreath forget to bloom,
Till latest ages sing his fame.

"But still, officious friends, beware! Nor rashly wound my favourite's fame; O watch it with parental care!

Stain not the hapless Minstrel's name.

"Seek not, amidst his wreath to twine

One verse that he himself suppressed; His offerings made at folly's shrine, Let them in dark oblivion rest!

"Ye wanderers in the wilds of song,

On whom I have not smiled in vain, Would you the blissful hours prolong, O shun seductive Pleasure's train!

"The bays that flourish round her bowers,
Are venomed o'er with noxious dews;
The thorns that lurk amidst her flowers,
A rankling poison oft infuse.

"Though Luxury's lap seem softly spread, The couch of Joy, and sweet repose, Yet hissing Furies haunt her bed,

And rack the mind with keenest woes.

"The hedge-rowed plain, the flowery vale, Where rosy Health delighted roves, Where Labour tells his jocund tale,

And village maidens sing their loves,—

"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,

That the white o' his e'e is turned out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou' to his lug's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he's crazie, His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa'; Nor that his hair's white as a daisy, But fient a hair has he ava'.

"But a weel-plenished mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty I never will miss't.
Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever will burn!
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

"There'll just be ae bar to my pleasures, A bar that's aft filled me wi' fear, He's sic a hard ne'er-be-gawn miser,

He likes his saul less than his gear. But though I now flatter his failin', An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare, Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',

His bags shall be mouldie nae mair!

"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was harriet,

An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa' when he grows weary;
Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"

But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;
An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,
His strang hazel pikestaff he taks;
Designin' to rax her a lounder,

He chanced on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!

WHERE QUAIR RINS SWEET.

Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers,
Down by yon moody glen, lassie,
My cottage stands-it shall be yours,
Gin ye will be my ain, lassie.

I'll watch ye wi' a lover's care,

And wi' a lover's e'e, lassie;

I'll weary Heaven wi' mony a prayer, And ilka prayer for thee, lassie.

'Tis true I ha'e na muckle gear;

My stock it's unco sma', lassie; Nae fine spun foreign claes I wear, Nor servants 'tend my ca', lassie.

But had I heir'd the British croun,
And thou o' low degree, lassie,

A rustic lad I wad ha'e grown,

Or shared that croun wi' thee, lassie.

Whenever absent from thy sight,

Nae pleasure smiles on me, lassie; I climb the mountain's towering height, And cast a look to thee, lassie.

I blame the blast blaws on thy cheek; The flower that decks thy hair, lassie, The gales that steal thy breath sae sweet, My love and envy share, lassie.

If for a heart that glows for thee,

Thou wilt thy heart resign, lassie, Then come, my Nancy, come to meThat glowing heart is mine, lassie. Where Quair rins sweet amang the flowers, Down by yon woody glen, lassie, My cottage stands-it shall be yours, Gin ye will be my ain, lassie.