But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, There's some exception, man an' woman; By this, the sun was out o' sight, LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER. ["The first time I saw Robert Burns," says Dugald Stewart, "was on the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my house in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of his acquaintance. My excellent and much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord Daer, happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, by the kindness and frankness of his manners, left an impression on the mind of the poet which was never effaced. The verses which the poet wrote on the occasion are among the most imperfect of his pieces, but a few stanzas may perhaps be a matter of curiosity, both on account of the character to which they relate and the light which they throw on the situation and the feelings of the writer before his name was known to the public." Basil. Lord Daer, the uncle of the present Earl of Selkirk, was born in the year 1763, at the family seat of St. Mary's Isle: he distinguished himself early at school, and at college excelled in literature and science; he had a greater regard for democracy than was then reckoned consistent with his birth and rank. He was, when Burns met him, in his twenty-third year; was very tall, something careless in his dress, and had the taste and talent common to his distinguished family. He died in his thirty-third year.] THIS wot ye all whom it concerns, I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burus, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I sprachled up the brae, I dinner'd wi' a Lord. I've been at drunken writers' feasts, Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests. I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty squireships of the quorum But wi' a Lord-stand out, my shin! A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son ! Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa, As I look o'er my sonnet. But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! And how he star'd and stammer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks, I sidling shelter'd in a nook, An' at his lordship steal't a look, Like some portentous omen; I marked nought uncommon. I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, Then from his lordship I shall learn, One rank as weel's another; For he but meets a brother. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. ["I enclose you two poems," said Burns to his friend Chalmers, "which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair 3-,' is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve, on the first day of her existence." Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearThe "Address" was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet's hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.] ance. EDINA! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Here wealth still swells the golden tide, Bids elegance and splendour rise; High wields her balance and her rod; Thy sons, Edina! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Or modest merit's silent claim; Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, And own his work indeed divine! There, watching high the least alarms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Edina Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. [Major Logan, of Camlarg, lived, when this hasty Poem was written, with his mother and sister at Parkhouse, near Ayr. He was a good musician, a joyous companion, and something of a wit. The Epistle was printed, for the first time, in my edition of Burns, in 1834, and since then no other edition has wanted it.] HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! We never heed, But tak' it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter Uphill, down brae, till some mischanter, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole. Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, And screw your temper pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care. May still your life from day to day Harmonious flow: A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey Encore! Bravo! |