The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, There in thy scanty mantle clad, But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, To misery's brink, Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink! Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom. On Captain Matthew Henderson, A gentleman who held the patent for his honours immediately from Almighty God. Should the poor be flattered?'-Shakspeare. But now his radiant course is run, O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steeped in morning dews. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry plough-boy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shrill ; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, I meet him on the dewy hill, And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree: Ae Fond Kiss. ['These exquisitely affecting stanzas contain the essence of a thousand love-tales.'-Scott.] Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, My Bonny Mary. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, A service to my bonny lassie; And I maun leave my bonny Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afarIt's leaving thee, my bonny Mary. Mary Morison. ['One of my juvenile works.'-Burns. Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Such are the lines of Mary Morison, &c.'—Hazlitt.] O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison, Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Though this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.' O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Bruce's Address. Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! A favourite walk of Burns during his residence in Dumfries was one along the right bank of the river above the town, terminating at the ruins of Lincluden Abbey and Church, which occupy a romantic situation on a piece of rising ground in the angle at the junction of the Cluden Water with the Nith. These ruins include many fine fragments of ancient decorative architecture, and are enshrined in a natural scene of the utmost beauty. Burns, according to his eldest son, often mused amidst the Lincluden ruins. There is one position on a little mount, to the south of the church, where a couple of landscapes of witching loveliness are obtained, set, as it were, in two of the windows of the ancient building. It was probably the Calvary' of the ancient church precinct. This the younger Burns remembered to have been a favourite resting-place of the poet. Such is the locality of the grand and thrilling ode, entitled A Vision, in which he hints-for more than a hint could not be ventured upon-his sense of the degradation of the ancient manly spirit of his country under the conservative terrors of the passing era.-Chambers's Burns. By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attired as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy-'Libertie !' And frae his harp sic strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear. He sang wi' joy the former day, He weeping wailed his latter times; But what he said it was nae playI winna ventur't in my rhymes. Man was Made to Mourn-a Dirge. When chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care; His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?' Began the reverend sage: 'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, 'O man! while in thy early years, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-O ill-matched pair!Shew man was made to mourn. 'A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds in every land, And man, whose heaven-erected face Makes countless thousands mourn! 'See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight, 'If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-- Or why has man the will and power The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! 'O Death! the poor man's dearest friendThe kindest and the best! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, |