Warm'd with "a spark o' Nature's fire," And few like thee, Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstacy. E'er winter's icy vapours fail, That shepherd boys, Led by the fragrance they inhale, Soon find their prize. So when to life's chill glens confin'd, That to thy brow was soon assign'd Anon, with nobler daring blest, The wild notes throbbing at thy breast, Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldly press'd, But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please, When want approach'd and pale disease; Could these thy infant brood appease That wail'd for bread? Or could they, for a moment, ease Applause, poor child of minstrelsy, They saw thee torn, And now, kind souls! with sympathy, Thy loss they mourn. Oh! how I loath the bloated train, And eye with opulent disdain Thy lowly roof. Yes, proud Dumfries, oh! would to Heaven Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven, Thou might'st have found some shelt'ring haven On this side Tweed : Yet, ah! e'en here, poor bards have striven, And died in need. True genius scorns to flatter knaves, His soul, while fierce the tempest raves, And with unshaken nerve he braves Life's pelting woes. No wonder, then, that thou shouldst find While scorn, neglect, and want, combin'd While wintry winds pipe loud and strong; The high-perch'd storm-cock pours his song; So thy Eolian lyre was strung 'Mist chilling times; Yet clearly didst thou roll along Thyrouth of rhymes." And oh! that routh of rhymes shall raise Haply some wing, in these our days, Has loftier soar'd: But from the heart more melting lays Were never pour'd. Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide, With sorrow some, but all with pride, In early spring, thy earthly bed Shall be with many a wild flow'r spread; The violet there her sweets shall shed, In humble guise, And there the mountain-daisy's head While darkness reigns, should bigotry, O'er thy cold clay, Those weeds, at light's first blush, shall be Soon swept away. And when thy scorners are no more, Oft shall the bard at eve explore, And mourn thy fate.. LETTER FROM BURNS To FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F. A. S.* SIR, AMONG the many witch stories I have heard relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three. Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail; in short, on such a night as the devil would chuse to take the air in; a farmer or farmer's servant was plodding and plashing homeward with his plough-irons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look out in approaching a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and This Letter was first published in the Censura Literaria, 1786, and was communicated to the Editor of that work by Mr Gilchrist of Stamford, accompanied with the following remark. "In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the Antiquary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, I found the following letter written to him by Burns, when the former was collecting the Antiquities of Scotland: When I premise it was on the second tradition that he afterwards formed the inimitable tale of Tam O'Shanter,' I cannot doubt of its being read with great interest. It were burning day light' to point out to a reader (and who is not a reader of Burns?) the thoughts he afterwards transplanted into the rhythmical narrative.” 0. G |