SCOTS PROLOGUE,

For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries.

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon❜on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would shew the tragic muse in a' her glory.—

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless, fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the
sword

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, And where ye justly can commend, commend them;

And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best! Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle time an' lay him on his back!

For us and for our stage should ony spier, "Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle

here?"

My

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honor to belong to you!

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before
ye strike.-
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, setts and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but
thanks.

AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION ON BEING

APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.

SEARCHING auld wives barrels

Och, ho! the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels ;
But-what'l ye say!

These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes!

To

TO THE OWL-By John M'Creddie.*

SAD bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth, To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? Is it some blast that gathers in the north, Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r? Is

* Burns sometimes wrote poems in the old ballad style, which, for reasons' best known to himself, he gave to the world as songs of the olden time. That famous soldier's song in particular, first printed in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop (Dr. Currie's ed. vol. ii. No. LX.) beginning

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

An' fill it in a silver tassie ;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonie lassie;

has been pronounced by some of our best living poets an inimitable relique of some ancient Minstrel! Yet I have discovered it to be the actual production of Burns himself. The ballad of Auld lang syne was also introduced in this ambiguous manner, though there exist proofs that the two best stanzas of it are indisputably his; hence there are strong grounds for believing this poem also to be his production, notwithstanding the evidence to the contrary. It was found among his MSS. in his own hand-writing, with occasional interlineations, such as occur in all his primitive effusions. It is worthy of his muse; but it is more in the style of Gray or Collins.

Should

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn? Or fear that winter will thy nest invade?

Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn?

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train, To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom; No friend to pity when thou dost complain, Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.

Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain, And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song: Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain, While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall? Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break? Less happy he who lists to pity's call?

Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,

That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there; That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat;

That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair:

Nor

Should there, however, be a real author of the name of John M'Creddie, he will not be displeased at the publication of his poem, when he recollects that it had obtained the notice of Burns, and had undergone his correction.

E.