And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin'- I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' My loss I mourn, but not repent it, Faites mes baissemains respectueuse, An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. MOSSGIEL, 30th October, 1786. ROBERT BURNS. ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, Esq.1 OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Burns has given the following account of these beautiful lines:-"The inclosed was written in consequence of your suggestion last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but did not please me, so it laid by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day I gave it a critic-brush. These kinds of subjects are much hackneyed, Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes. The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: and, besides, the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse's fire: however I have done the best I could." And in another letter to Dr., Geddes, he writes thus: "The foregoing poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon. When, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my poem or me than I had been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with his lady's name over a silly new reel! Did the gentleman imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON THE BANKS OF NITH. This is from the original rough draft of the poem, in the possession of Mrs. Hyslop. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou clad in russet weed, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Make content and ease thy aim. Fame a restless idle dream: Pleasures, insects on the wing, Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring: Those that sip the dew alone, Make the butterflies thy own; Those that would the bloom devour, Crush the locusts-save the flower. For the future be prepared, Guard wherever thou canst guard; But thy utmost duly done, Welcome what thou canst not shun. Follies past, give thou to air, Make their consequence thy care: Keep the name of man in mind, Him whose wondrous work thou art; Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide! EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER, One of the Poet's earliest friends. In this strange land, this uncouth clime, A land that prose did never view it, I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, Dowie she saunters down Nithside, Thou bure the Bard through many a shire? 1 His mare. To canter with the Sagitarre, But till we meet and weet our whistle, ROBERT BURNS. TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. He was steward to the Duke of Queensberry, and a warm friend of the Poet. Он, could I give thee India's wealth, To share them with a friend. But golden sands did never grace The Heliconian stream; Then take what gold could never buy- WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS. BLEST be M'Murdo to his latest day! |