MY PEGGY'S FACE. TUNE-My Peggy's Face. My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The lily's hue, the rose's dye, ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. SENT WITH A SILHOUETTE PORTRAIT. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,1 Of Stuart, a name once respected A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected. Though something like moisture conglobes in my A eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wanderer were royal. My fathers that name have revered on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine, Their title's avowed by my country. 1 Mr. Tytler had published, in 1759, An Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the Evidence against Mary Queen of Scots. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, If bringing them over was lucky for us, But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground! I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. ON A YOUNG LADY RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER DEVON, CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE INFANT YEARS IN WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. Addressed to Miss Charlotte Hamilton, and intended for publication in Johnson's Museum. The tune was a beautiful Highland air, entitled Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh, or the Pretty Milkmaid. How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew, And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew! Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies, rose; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS. The Lord President of the Court of Session (Dundas) died on the 13th December, and it seems to have been suggested to Burns by Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, that he should bring his Muse into play for the celebration of the event. There must have been some reason beyond the merits of the President for Hay having advised this step, and for the proud soul of Burns having stooped to adopt it. He set to bewailing the decease of the great man in the usual style of the venal bards of the age of patronage, and, as might be expected, with no great success. LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Where to the whistling blast and water's roar |