Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,

When manhood is

your wish;
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!

WINTER.

A DIRGE.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

'The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'
The joyless winter day,

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are thy Will!

Then all I want (O, do thou grant

This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign!

LINES ON MEETING WITH LORD DAER.

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day!

Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinnered wi' a lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests;
(Wi' reverence be it spoken!)

I've even joined the honoured jorum,
When mighty squireships o' the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a lord!--stand out, my shin:
A lord-a peer-an earl's son !-

Up higher yet, my bonnet!
And sic a lord-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a',

As I look o'er my sonnet.

But, oh! for Hogarth's magic power!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glower,

And how he stared and stammered!
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammered.

To meet good Stewart little pain is,
Or Scotia's sacred Demosthenes;

Thinks I, they are but men!

But Burns, my lord-guid God! I doited! My knees on ane anither knoited,

As faultering I gaed ben!

I sidling sheltered in a nook,
And at his lordship steal't a look,

Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
And (what surprised me) modesty,

I markèd nought uncommon.

I watched the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his lordship I shall learn
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care,
To meet wi' noble, youthful Daer,

For he but meets a brother.

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!
From marking wildly-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honoured shade,

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labour plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise!
Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, And marked with many a seamy scar: The ponderous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repelled th' invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Famed heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how changed the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild wandering roam!
Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruined gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Even I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sovereign powers!
From marking wildly-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honoured shade.

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

"TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are plied, The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

Where Ignorance her darkening vapour throws

And Cruelty directs the thickening blows;