While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
Oer the hope and misfortune of being to mourn
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

ON THE SAME.

HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
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.

VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.

The duke of Queensberry stripped his domains of Drumlanrig in Dumfriesshire, and Neidpath in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to enrich the countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter, and to whom, by a singular piece of good fortune on her part, Mr. George Selwyn, the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, under the same, and pro bably equally mistaken impression.'-Chambers.

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd,
I sat me down upon a craig,

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the Genius of the stream.
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave-

'And came ye here, my son,' he cried,
To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?
There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms

Threw broad and dark across the pool :
'When glinting, through the trees, appear'd
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,
That slowly curled up the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld,
Its branchy shelter's lost and gane,
And scarce a stinted birk is left

To shiver in the blast its lane.'

'Alas!' said I, 'what ruefu' chance Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?

Has laid your rocky bosom bare?

Has stripp'd the cleeding o' your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scatters blight in early spring? Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?' 'Nae eastlin blast,' the sprite replied; 'It blew na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!' the Genius sigh'dAs through the cliffs he sank him down-→ 'The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.'

THE BOOK-WORMS.

Written in a splendidly bound, but worm-eaten, copy of Shakspeare, the property of a nobleman.

THROUGH and through the inspired leaves,

Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

LINES ON STIRLING.

Written on a pane of glass, on visiting this ancient seat of
Royalty, in 1787.

HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,

A race outlandish fills their throne.

THE REPROOF.

The lines on Stirling were considered imprudent by one of the Poet's friends, when he immediately wrote the "Reproof" underneath.

RASH mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like

the Bible,

Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.
As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A caulder kirk, and in 't but few;
As cauld a minister's e'er spak,
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT. This was spoken in reply to one who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland for conscience' sake.

THE Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears:
But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause-

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

THERE's death in the cup-sae beware!
Nay, more-there is danger in touching;
But wha can avoid the fell snare ?

The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

THE TOAD-EATER.

Spoken in reply to one who was talking largely of his noble
friends.

WHAT of earls with whom you have supt,
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?
Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse,

Though it crawl on the curls of a queen.

THE SELKIRK GRACE.

When on a visit to St. Mary's Isle, the Earl of Selkirk requested
Burns to say grace at dinner; he complied in these words.
SOME hae meat, and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.

ON A SUICIDE.

EARTH'D up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble-

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel'
To save the Lord the trouble.

ON THE LATE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.
How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace-
Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?
His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt.

IMPROMPTU ON WILLIE STEWART.

These verses were written on a tumbler which was in the posses. sion of the late Sir Waiter Scott.

YOU'RE Welcome, Willie Stewart,

You're welcome, Willie Stewart;

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it;

May woman on him turn her back,
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart.

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, On the occasion of a national Thanksgiving for a Naval Victory. YE hypocrites! are these your pranks?— To murder men, and gie God thanks! For shame! gie o'er, proceed no furtherGod won't accept your thanks for murther!

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

O THOU, in whom we live and move,
Who mad'st the sea and shore;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore.

And if it please thee, pow'r above,

Still grant us, with such store,

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

EPITAPH ON MR. W. CRUICKSHANKS.

HONEST Will's to Heaven gane,
And mony shall lament him;
His faults they a' in Latin lay,

In English nane e'er kent them,