ON JOHN BUSHBY, WRITER, DUMFRIES. Here lies John Bushby, honest man! TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, THE EARL OF GALLOWAY. Burns had an antipathy of old standing towards the Earl of Galloway. It was against him that he launched invectives when Mr Syme pointed to Garlies House, across the Bay of Wigton, in the course of their excursion in July 1793. There is a string of epigrams which the irascible bard launched at this respectable nobleman, with of course no other effect than to make moderateminded men lament his own subordination of judgment to spleen. What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind! No Stewart art thou, Galloway, Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, On being informed [misinformed?] that the earl threatened him with his resentment Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway. I ask no kindness at thy hand, For thou hast none to give. It may be curious to contrast with these ungracious and substantially unjust quatrains, the newspaper character of the earl at his death in 1806. His loss will be extensively and deeply felt; his numerous friends and connections profited by his advice and assistance; his active frame and mind he never spared; he did nothing by halves. As a husband and father, he was exemplary; as a friend, indefatigable; he adored the Supreme Being; he loved his king; his affairs prospered. He was admired for his taste in music; and had great skill in agricultural pursuits.' For once, a friendly obituary notice may be accepted in evidence; it was at least nearer the truth than Burns's election lampoons and epigrams. SONGS OF WHICH THE DATE IS NOT KNOWN. CALEDONIA. TUNE-Caledonian Hunt's Delight. There was once a day-but old Time then was young- (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 'Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!' With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Long quiet she reigned; till thitherward steers They darkened the air, and they plundered the land; The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore: As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. The Cameleon-savage disturbed her repose, And robbed him at once of his hopes and his life: Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood: Thus bold, independent, unconquered, and free, I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME? TUNE-Morag. O wha is she that lo'es me, O that's the queen o' womankind, If thou shalt meet a lassie In grace and beauty charming, If thou hadst heard her talking, But her by thee is slighted, |