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 op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:

No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ;-
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics!-appall'd I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame :
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear:
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife,

The hapless poet flounders on through life;
'Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd,

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast :
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.

O dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder “ some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox..

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train,

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears :)
O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r!—
Fintray, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown;
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path;
Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

The Poet complains in this vigorous epistle that he is maimed leg and arm, and about to "beg a pass for leave to beg." This poem was written for the purpose of preparing the way for a humble request. Burns began to feel that his weekly expeditions in the ten parishes were matters of great toil as well as expense: he expressed a wish to be removed to a district of moderate bounds, that he might have more time for the service of the muse.

That Burns rode hard, some of his readers may have already surmised from his adventures with Jenny Geddes and Peg Nicholson. In a letter to Collector Mitchell, he speaks freely about his galloping; the kindness of John Campbell, Surgeon, Aberdeen, that gentleman's

grandson, has enabled me to publish it for the first time-there is no date: but the allusion to the district of ten parishes gives the time.

"SIR,-I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel tonight—I wish and pray that the Goddess of Justice herself would appear to-morrow among our Hon. Gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that, 'mercy to the thief is injustice to the honest man.' For my part I have galloped over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just alighted, or rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me down; for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of times within the last twenty miles, telling me in his own way, 'Behold, am not I thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years!' In short, Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a hard hearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so many great men to espouse his cause that I shall not be surprised if I am committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow, for insolence to the dear friends of the gentlemen of the county.

I have the honour to be, Sir,

"Your obliged and obedient humble, "ROBERT BURNS."

ΤΟ

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.,

OF FINTRAY,

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

Robert Graham of Fintray has the merit of doing all that was done for Burns in the way of raising him out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enabling him to serve the muse without dread of want. Fintray had, indeed, little in his power; but he exercised his power willingly, and not only obtained the Poet an appointment in the Excise, but was instrumental in removing him to a district requiring less personal exertion. Nor should it be forgotten that he defended him with obstinate eloquence when imputations were thrown upon his loyalty. These verses were written on receiving the favour which the previous epistle prayed for.