THE SONG OF DEATH

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 Song of Death.1

Tune-"Oran an aoig."

Scene.-A Field of Battle-Time of the day, evening-The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth and ye skies,
Now gay with the broad setting sun;

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life's gloomy foe!
Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark;
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
Our King and our country to save;
While victory shines on Life's last ebbing sands,-
O who would not die with the brave?

Poem on Sensibility.

SENSIBILITY, how charming,

Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou alas! hast known too well!

1 Enthusiasm for King and Country do not match well with Burns's affection for the French Revolution. The piece, though it has been admired, is extremely conventional.

2 These Tears of Sensibility flowed for Mrs M'Lehose.

The verses were afterwards sent to Mrs Dunlop and Mrs Stewart, with the second line altered to

"Thou, my friend, canst truly tell."

THE TOADEATER

Fairest flower, behold the lily
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate in the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
But alas! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow:
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

The Toadeater.1

OF Lordly acquaintance you boast,

And the Dukes that you dined wi' yestreen:
Yet an insect's an insect at most,

Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Queen!

Divine Service in the Kirk of Lamington.2

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A cauld kirk, and in't but few:
As cauld a minister's ever spak;
Ye'se a' be het or I come back.

1 On a level with Burns's usual essays in epigram.

The text is Lockhart's version. Hogg and Motherwell give :

"What of lords with whom you have supped,

And of Dukes that you dined with yestreen;

A louse, sir, is still but a louse,

Tho' it crawl on the locks of a

Queen."

Cunningham's is a compound of the two, and Chambers gives:

"No more of your titled acquaintances boast,

And what nobles and gentles you've

seen;

An insect is only an insect at most,
Tho' it crawl on the curl of a
Queen."

2 Lockhart, a Lanarkshire man himself, published these rhymes in his Life of Burns (1828).

Text also from Lockhart. Scott Douglas gives in the third line :

"A caulder preacher never spak."

The variations in different editions are numerous, but that of Hogg and Motherwell gives the most unusual form :

"A cauld, cauld kirk, and in't but few, A caulder minister never spak ; His sermon made us a' turn blue,

But it's be warm ere I come back.'

O MAY, THY MORN

The Keekin-glass.1

How daur ye ca' me "Howlet-face"?
Ye blear-e'ed, withered spectre !
Ye only spied the keekin-glass,
An' there ye saw your picture.

A Grace before Dinner, extempore.2

O THOU who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!

We bless Thee, God of Nature wide,
For all Thy goodness lent:
And if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;

But, whether granted or denied,

Lord, bless us with content. Amen!

A Grace after Dinner, extempore.3

O THOU, in whom we live and move-
Who made the sea and shore ;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore;

And, if it please Thee, Power above!

Still grant us, with such store,

The friend we trust, the fair we love-
And we desire no more.

Amen!

O May, Thy Morn.*
O MAY, thy morn was ne'er so sweet

As the mirk night o' December!
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:

1 Written for Miss Miller of Dal-
swinton; Scott, in an inédit letter tells
Lockhart an anecdote of Burns at Dal-
swinton, but adds, that to publish it
"might be invidious."
It certainly
would, so it remains unpublished.
2 Calls for no comment.

3 The mention of "the fair," in a Grace, is, at least, characteristic.

Suggested by parting with Mrs Maclehose, who was leaving Scotland to join her husband in the West Indies.

AE FOND KISS

And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember:
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.

And here's to them that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum!
And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's guid watch o'er 'em!
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum!
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

Ae fond Kiss, and then We sever.1

Tune-"Rory Dall's Port."

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, and then forever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov'd sae kindly,
Had we never lov'd sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

1 Written in reference to the same occasion as the foregoing piece, in December 1791. The famous lines "Had we never loved sae kindly" have

been attributed to Byron by an eminent English critic, no admirer of Burns.

BEHOLD THE HOUR

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,

Warring sighs and groans

I'll

wage thee.

Behold the hour, the boat, arrive.1

BEHOLD the hour, the boat, arrive!

My dearest Nancy, O fareweel!

Severed frae thee, can I survive,

Frae thee whom I hae lov'd sae weel?

Endless and deep shall be my grief;
Nae ray of comfort shall I see,
But this most precious, dear belief,
That thou wilt still remember me!

Alang the solitary shore

Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,

I'll westward turn my wishful eye.

'Happy thou Indian grove,' I'll say,
'Where now my Nancy's path shall be !
While thro' your sweets she holds her way,
O tell me, does she muse on me?'

1 Again a farewell to Mrs Maclehose. The contrast of feeling in Burns's English and Scottish verses on the same theme is instructive. Mr

Scott Douglas points out that the lines are a mere pastiche on a piece of verne in an old Edinburgh Magazine.