Prospective consolation Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnin spite. But by yon moon !—and that's high swearin— An' by her een wha was a dear ane ! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin In fair play yet. My loss I mourn, but not repent it; Some cantrip hour By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted; Then vive l'amour! Faites mes baissemains respectueusè To sentimental sister Susie, And honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, 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 ; Be't light, be't dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park. ROBERT BURNS. Mossgiel, 30th October 1786. A WINTER NIGHT "Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, WHEN biting Boreas, fell and dour, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Or, thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl: List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle, O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle Ilk happing bird,-wee, helpless thing! What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you, on murdering errands toil'd, A winter night Man's in- The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd humanity My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats! Now Phoebe in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, “Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Than heaven-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows! "See stern Oppression's iron grip, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er the land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show- Some coarser substance, unrefin’d— Plac'd for her lordly use, thus far, thus vile, below! "Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, Pity The pow'rs you proudly own? Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray'rs! "Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Think on the dungeon's grim confine, The wretch, already crushed low A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!" N for the wretched The Scottish capital I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer But deep this truth impress'd my mind— The heart benevolent and kind ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH And singing, lone, the lingering hours, Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, open arms the stranger hail; With |