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To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given-

She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in heaven.

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD.

SIR DAVID MAXWELL of Cardoness had given Burns some cause for offence during the heat of a contested election. The poet never failed to strike hard on such occasions, and in many cases unjustly.

BLESS the Redeemer, Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,

Who said that not the soul alone,
But body, too, must rise;

For had He said, "The soul alone
From death I will deliver;"

Alas! alas! O Cardonness,

Then thou hadst slept for ever!

THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.

THE origin of these lines is thus related by Cromek :-" When politics ran high the poet happened to be in a tavern, and the following lines-the production of one of 'The True Loyal Natives'-were handed over the table to Burns:

'Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song,

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every throng;
With Craken the attorney, and Mundell the quack,
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.'

The poet took out a pencil and instantly wrote this reply:"—

YE true "Loyal natives" attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt,
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

EPITAPH ON ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

ROBERT AIKEN, writer, Ayr, was one of the poet's most intimate friends.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame

Of this much-loved, much-honour'd name,
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold!

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3 Grave

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Through lofty groves the cushat1 roves,
The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus every kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;

Some social join, and leagues combine;
Some solitary wander :
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion;

The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry,
The fluttering, gory pinion!

But Peggy dear, the evening's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading green and yellow :
Come, let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal showers to budding flowers,
Not autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer!

GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O!

Tune--"Green grow the rashes."

THIS is an improvement on an old Scotch song of much spirit, but more broad than it need be.

GREEN grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!

1 Wood-pigeon.

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on every han`.
In every hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,

An 'twere na for the lasses, O?

The warl'ly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny1 hour at een,
My arms about my dearie, O,
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

For you sae douce, 3 ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, ();
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

Tune-" Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fly."
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare-
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the crown, how it waves in the air!
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

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He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit till us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

But, sure as three times three mak nine,
I see, by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze1 me on thee, Robin.

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt ye'se gar
The bonny lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessin's on thee, Robin!

LUCKLESS FORTUNE.

O RAGING Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
O raging Fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossoms sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O;

But luckless Fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

THE MAUCHLÍNE LADY.

Tune-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady:
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye ;

But when I came roun' by Mauchline town,

Not dreadin' ony body,

My heart was caught, before I thought,

And by a Mauchline lady.*

1 A term of endearment.

*Jean Armour.

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