any pretence whatever, be admitted. In short, the proper person for this society, is a cheerful, honest-hearted lad; who, if he has a friend that is true, and a mistress that is kind, and as much wealth as genteelly to make both ends meet-is just as happy as this world can make him.

Note D. See p. 211.

A great number of manuscript poems were found among the papers of Burns, addressed to him by admirers of his genius, from different parts of Britain, as well as from Ireland and America. Among these, was a poetical epistle from Mr. Telford, of Shrewsbury, of superior merit. It is written in the dialect of Scotland (of which country Mr. Telford is a native), and in the ver sification generally employed by our poet himself. Its object is to recommend to him other subjects of a serious nature, similar to that of the Cotter's Saturday Night; and the reader will find that the advice is happily enforced by example. It would have given the editor pleasure to have inserted the whole of this poem, which he hopes will one day see the light: he is happy to have obtained, in the mean time, his friend Mr. Telford's per mission to insert the following extracts.

Pursue, O Burns! thy happy style, "Those manner-painting strains," that, while They bear me northward mony a mile,

Recall the days,

When tender joys, with pleasing smile,

Blest my young ways.

I see my fond companions rise,
I join the happy village joys,

I see our green hills touch the skies,

And thro' the woods

I hear the river's rushing noise,

Its roaring floods".

No distant Swiss with warmer glow,
E'er heard his native music flow,
Nor could his wishes stronger grow,

Than still have mine,

When up this ancient mount I go,

With songs of thine.

O happy bard' thy gen'rous flame
Was given to raise thy country's fame,
For this thy charming numbers came,
Thy matchless lays;
Then sing, and save her virtuous name,
To latest days.

But mony a theme awaits thy muse,
Fine as thy Cotter's sacred views ;
Then in such verse thy soul infuse,
With holy air,

And sing the course the pious chuse,
With all thy care.

How, with religious awe imprest,
They open lay the guileless breast,
And youth and age with fears distrest,

All due prepare,

The symbols of eternal rest

Devout to shareţ.

The banks of the Esk, in Dumfriesshire, are here alluded to. E.

A beautiful little mount, which stands immediately before, or rather forms a part of Shrewsbury castle, a seat of sir William Pulteney, bart.

The sacrament, generally administered in the country parishes of Scotland in the open air.

How down ilk lang withdrawing hill,
Successive crowds the valleys fill,
While pure religious converse still

Beguiles the way,

And gives a cast to youthful will,

To suit the day.

How plac'd along the sacred board,
Their hoary pastor's looks ador'd,
His voice with peace and blessings stor❜d,
Sent from above,

And faith, and hope, and joy afford,

And boundless love.

O'er this, with warm seraphic glow,
Celestial beings pleased bow,
And, whisper'd, hear the holy vow,

'Mid grateful tears;

And mark amid' such scenes below,

Their future peers.

O mark the awful, solemn scene* !
When hoary winter clothes the plain,
Along the snowy hills is seen

Approaching slow,
In mourning weeds, the village train,
In silent woe.

Some much-respected brother's bier,
(By turns in pious task they share,)
With heavy hearts they forward bear
Along the path;
Where nei'bours saw, in dusky airf,
The light of death.

* A Scottish funeral.

E.

This alludes to a superstition prevalent in Eskdale and Annandale, that a light precedes in the night every funeral, marking the precise path it is to pass.

E.

And when they pass the rocky how,
Where binwood bushes o'er them flow,
And move around the rising knowe,
Where far away

The kirk-yard trees are seen to grow,
By th' water brae.

Assembled round the narrow grave,
While o'er them wint'ry tempests rave,
In the cold wind their grey locks wave,
As low they lay

Their brother's body 'mongst the lave
Of parent clay.

Expressive looks from each declare
The griefs within their bosoms bear;
One holy bow devout they share,

Then home return,

And think o'er all the virtues fair

Of him they mourn.

Say how, by early lessons taught,
(Truth's pleasing air is willing caught,)
Congenial to th' untainted thought,

The shepherd boy,
Who tends his flocks on lonely height,
Feels holy joy.

Is aught on earth so lovely known,
On sabbath morn and far alone,

His guileless soul all naked shown

Before his God

Such pray'rs must welcome reach the throne, And blest abode.

O tell! with what a heartfelt joy
The parent eyes the virtuous boy;
And all his constant kind employ,
Is how to give

The best of lear he can enjoy,

As means to live.

The parish school, its curious site,
The master who can clear indite,
And lead him on to count and write,

Demand thy care;

Nor pass the ploughman's school at night

Without a share.

Nor yet the tenty eurious lad,
Who o'er the ingle hings his head,
And begs of nei'bours books to read;

For hence arise

Thy country's sons, who far are spread,

Baith bauld and wise.

The bonnie lasses, as they spin,
Perhaps with Allan's sangs begin,

How Tay and Tweed smooth flowing rin

Thro' flowery hows;

Where shepherd lads their sweethearts win

With earnest vows.

Or may be, Burns, thy thrilling page
May a' their virtuous thoughts engage,
While playful youth and placid age

In concert join,

To bliss the bard, who, gay or sage,

Improves the mind.

Long may their harmless, simple ways
Nature's own pure emotions raise;
May still the dear romantic blaze

Of purest love,

Their bosoms warm to latest days,

And aye improve.

May still each fond attachment glow,

O'er woods, o'er streams, o'er hills of snow; May rugged rocks still dearer grow,