But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear! Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. CXX. ΤΟ Beelzebub. JOHN TAYLOR. [Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had "never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and pail him in verse."] WITH Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying, Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Was but a sorry walker; To Vulcan then Apollo goes, To get a frosty calker. Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, And did Sol's business in a crack; Sol paid him with a sonnet. Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, My Pegasus is poorly shod- ROBERT BURNS. Ramages, 3 o'clock, (no date.) CXXI. LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. [The poet communicated this "Lament" to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuffbox, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.] I. Now Nature hangs her mantle green Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, II. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. And in the narrow house o' death III. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white 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! IV. I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign o' Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands And never-ending care. V. But as for thee, thou false woman! Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae! The weeping blood in woman's breast Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe VI. My son my son! may kinder stars And may those pleasures gild thy reign, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend VII. O! soon, to me, may summer suns CXXII. THE WHISTLE. ["As the authentic prose history," says Burns, "of the 'Whistle' is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scotch Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, cf Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, 'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.' "Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field." The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, who drank bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite disposed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned.] I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth, I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, king, And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. Old Loda,1 still rueing the arm of Fingal, 1 See Ossian's Carie-thura. "This whistle's your challenge-to Scotland get A bard was selected to witness the fray, Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor CXXIII. ELEGY ON MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO. [This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, as Burns loved to call her, was daughter to the odd and the elegant, the clever and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. "In domestic circumstances," says Robert Chambers, "Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. His wife, a very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, a promising boy, in whose education he took great delight, was likewise snatched from his affections by a premature death; and his second daughter, in personal loveliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off by consumption, when only twenty-five years old." Her name was Elizabeth.] LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 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, immix'd with reedy fens; Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, Princes, whose cumb'rous 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 eclips'd 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 leck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. CXXIV. LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. [Burns lamented the death of this kind and accomplished nobleman with melancholy sincerity: he moreover named one of his sons for him: he went into mourn. ing when he heard of his death, and he sung of his merits in a strain not destined soon to lose the place it has taken among verses which record the names of the noble and the generous. He died January 30, 1791, in the fortysecond year of his age. James Cunningham was succeeded in his title by his brother, and with him expired, in 1796, the last of a race, whose name is intimately connected with the History of Scotland, from the days of Malcolm Canmore.] V. "I've seen sae mony changefu' years, Lie a' that would my sorrows share. VI. "And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay; The flow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride! his country's stay In weary being now I pine, For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, VII. "Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard [gloom. Though brought from fortune's mirkest VIII. "In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: IX. "O! why has worth so short a date? O had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low. X. "The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child CXXV. LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART., OF WHITEFOORD. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. [Sir John Whitefoord, a name of old standing in Ayrshire, inherited the love of his family for literature, and interested himself early in the fame and fortunes of Burns.] THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, To thee this votive offering I impart, CXXVI. ADDRESS ΤΟ THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM WITH BAYS. ["Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr. Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of September: for which day perhaps his muse may inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest point from his farm, and, wandering along the pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, catch inspiration in the devious walk, till he finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dryburgh. There the Commendator will give him a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar of Caledonian virtue." Such was the invitation of the Earl of Buchan to Burns. To request the poet to lay down his sickle when his harvest was half reaped, and traverse |