Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.

"I've seen sae monie changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowing and unknown;
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!) My noble master lies in clay;

The flower 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 agèd ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of wo 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

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom

"In Poverty's low barren vale

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turned the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care.

"O why has worth so short a date,
While villains ripen gray with time?
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of wo!
O had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

The bridegroom may forget the bride, Was made his wedded wife yestreen; last nigh The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been;

The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART. OF WHITEFOORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,

To thee this votive-offering I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron loved; His worth, his honour, all the world approved : We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world

unknown..

THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY.

From this time forth we are to see a chronic exasperation of spirit, affecting the life and conversation of the luckless bard. We get but slight and casual glimpses of the cause of all this acrimony; but I am

assured that it would be a great mistake to attribute it wholly, or in any considerable part, to a mere jar ring between the sensitive spirit of the poet and the rude contact of the worldly scene into which he was plunged. Burns did not want for a certain worldly wisdom and hardiness. His poetical powers had not in themselves exposed him to any serious evils. On the contrary, he was indebted to them for any advance in the social scene which he ever made, and even for such endowments of fortune as had befallen him. Neither was Burns so unworthily regarded by either high or low in his own day and place, as to have much occasion for complaint on that score. On the contrary, he had obtained the respectful regard of many of the very choicest men and women of his country. Whenever he appeared in aristocratic circles, his acknowledged genius, and the charms of his conversation, gave him a distinction not always readily yielded to mere wealth and rank. No: we have to look elsewhere for an explanation of the mystery It seems to have mainly lain in the reckless violence of some of his passions, by the consequences of which he was every now and then exposed to humiliations galling to his pride. It was a refuge to his wounded feelings, to suppose that these passions were essen. tially connected with his poetical character.

[Summer, 1791.]

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest.
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest),

Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor Misery, hearkening to her tale) And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the

ground:

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, The envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his

cell;

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour,
In all the omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen, subtle wiles insure:
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their

drug,

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug;

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.

But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard!
A thing unteachable in world's skill,

And half an idiot, too, more helpless still;
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;