Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs-
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.

The order'd system fair before her stood; Nature, well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; Yet ere she gave creating labour o'er, Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter, Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; With arch-alacrity and conscious glee (Nature may have her whim as well as we : Her Hogarth-art, perhaps she meant to show it), She forms the thing, and christens it—a Poet: Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow; A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends; Admir'd and prais'd-and there the wages ends; A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live; Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk :
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work.

Viewing the propless climber of mankind,

She cast about a standard tree to find;

In pity for his helpless woodbine state,

She clasp'd his tendrils round the truly great:
A title, and the only one I claim,

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the hapless Muses' tuneful train ! Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main, Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff, That never gives-tho' humbly takes-enough: The little Fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bliss on them dependAh, that the friendly e'er should want a friend!' Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son Who life and wisdom at one race begun, Who feel by reason, and who give by rule (Instinct's a brute, and Sentiment a fool !), Who make poor 'will do' wait upon 'I should'We own they're prudent, but who owns they're good? Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye, God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! But come ye who the godlike pleasure know, Heaven's attribute distinguish'd-to bestow! Whose arms of love would grasp all human race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace— Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes, Prop of my dearest hopes for future times!

Why shrinks my soul, half blushing, half afraid, Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid?

I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I tax thy friendship at thy kind command.

But there are such who court the tuneful Nine
(Heavens! should the branded character be mine!),
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose.
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit!
Seek you the proofs in private life to find?
Pity the best of words should be but wind!

So to Heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want,
They dun Benevolence with shameless front;
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays—
They persecute you all your future days!

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume the plough again!
The pie-bald jacket let me patch once more!
On eighteenpence a week I've liv'd before.

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift,

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift:

That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height,

With man and nature fairer in her sight,

My Muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight.

IMPROMPTU TO CAPTAIN RIDDELL

ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER

ELLISLAND, Monday Evening

I

YOUR News and Review, Sir,

I've read through and through, Sir,

With little admiring or blaming :

The Papers are barren

Of home-news or foreign

No murders or rapes worth the naming.

II

Our friends, the Reviewers,

Those chippers and hewers,

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;

But of meet or unmeet

In a fabric complete

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

III

My goose-quill too rude is

To tell all your goodness

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;

Would to God I had one

Like a beam of the sun,

And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

makes; sheepish

REPLY TO A NOTE FROM

CAPTAIN RIDDELL

ELLISLAND

DEAR Sir, at onie time or tide

I'd rather sit wi' you than ride,
Tho' 'twere wi' royal Geordie:

And trowth! your
kindness soon and late
Aft gars me to mysel look blate-
The Lord in Heaven reward ye!

R. BURNS.

livid; easterly

torpid

much

women; weavers

TO JAMES TENNANT OF GLENCONNER

AULD Comrade dear and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on:
Smith wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till, wi' their logic-jargon tir'd
And in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal-
What wives and wabsters see and feel!