THE GLOOMY NIGHT.*

Tune-"Roslin Castle."

THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The best account of this touching picture of the poet's own acute mental sufferings is given by himself:-"I had been for some time skulking from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail, as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends: my chest was on the road to Greenock; and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia,

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,

when a letter from Dr Blackwood, to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes by opening new prospects to my ambition." To this Professor Walker adds:-"I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished poems; and he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing it with a description of the circumstances in which it was composed, more striking than the poem itself. He had left Dr Lawrie's family after a visit, which he expected to be the last, and in his way home had to cross a wide stretch of solitary moor. His mind was strongly affected by parting for ever with a scene where he had tasted so much elegant and social pleasure; and, depressed by the contrasted gloom of his prospects, the aspect of nature harmonized with his feelings it was a lowering and heavy evening in the end of autumn. The wind was up, and whistled through the rushes and speargrass, which bent before it. The clouds were driving across the sky; and cold pelting showers at intervals added discomfort of body to cheerlessness of mind. Under these circumstances, and in this mood, Burns composed his poem.' How interesting is every circumstance, however minute, which is connected with the history of poetic inspiration !—M.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn

By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly :
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear : But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves. Pursuing past, unhappy loves! Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes! My peace with these, my love with thoseThe bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr!

ELIZA.*

Tune-" Gilderoy."

FROM thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore !
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more!

But the last throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,

That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh!

* Some discrepancy of opinion exists as to the heroine of this song. We have heard that she was a Miss Eliza Miller, afterwards Mrs Templeton, Mauchline. Mr Cunningham, on the authority of Mr Galt, who says she was a relative of his, mentions that her name was Elizabeth Barbour. Notwithstanding this, we are still inclined to think she was the identical Miss Miller, whom the poet, in the catalogue of the beauties of Mauchline, commemorated in the hemistich,

"Miss Miller is fine;"

but both may have been Betties, and both may have been favourites of the poet, for he never was without two strings to his bow. We leave the ladies to settle the matter betwixt them. -M.

THE FAREWELL.

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON.*

Tune-"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!”

ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,
Companions of my social joy!
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light:

And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'.

May freedom, harmony, and love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,
The glorious architect divine!
That you may keep the unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

*This masonic effusion, which the Poet recited in person, it is said, affected the Brethren deeply. It appears in the Kilmarnock edition of his poems. Burns was always an enthusiastic admirer of the "mystic tie;" numerous allusions to masonry occur in his works.-M.

And you farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the Bard that's far awa'!

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-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer
I don't envy, I give him his bow
I scorn not the peasant, tho' 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-belly'd 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-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

This is an after production to the Farewell. peared in the Edinburgh edition.-M.

It first ap