Dim backward as I cast my view, What sick'ning scenes appear!

What sorrows yet may pierce me through, Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb!

Happy! ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's denied, Yet while the busy means are plied, They bring their own reward: Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night, And joyless morn the same!

You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find ev'ry prospect vain.

How blest the solitary's lot, Who, all-forgetting, all forgot, Within his humble cell, The cavern, wild with tangling roots, Sits o'er his newly gather'd fruits, Beside his crystal well!

Or haply, to his ev'ning thought, By unfrequented stream, The ways of men are distant brought, A faint, collected dream; While praising, and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, As wand'ring, meand'ring, He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd Where never human footstep trac'd, Less fit to play the part, The lucky moment to improve, And just to stop, and just to move, With self-respecting art: But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, Which I too keenly taste, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not, Or human love or hate; Whilst I here must cry here At perfidy ingrate!

O, enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times, To feel the follies, or the crimes, Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court, When manhood is your wish!

The losses, the crosses, That active man engage; The fears all, the tears all, Of dim declining age!

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline,

Recommending a Boy.

Mossgaville, May 3, 1786.

I hold it, sir, my bounden duty To warn you how that Master Tootie, Alias, Laird M'Gaun, Was here to hire yon lad away 'Bout whom ye spak the t.i.ther day, An' wad hae don't aff han';

But lest he learn the callan tricks-- An' faith I muckle doubt him-- Like sc.r.a.pin out auld Crummie's nicks, An' tellin lies about them; As lieve then, I'd have then Your clerkship he should sair, If sae be ye may be Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, The boy might learn to swear; But then, wi' you, he'll be sae taught, An' get sic fair example straught, I hae na ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him, every quirk, An' sh.o.r.e him weel wi' h.e.l.l; An' gar him follow to the kirk-- Aye when ye gang yoursel.

If ye then maun be then Frae hame this comin' Friday, Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir, The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae gi'en, In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, To meet the warld's worm; To try to get the twa to gree, An' name the airles an' the fee, In legal mode an' form: I ken he weel a snick can draw, When simple bodies let him: An' if a Devil be at a', In faith he's sure to get him.

To phrase you and praise you, Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray'r still you share still Of grateful Minstrel Burns.

Versified Reply To An Invitation

Sir,

Yours this moment I unseal, And faith I'm gay and hearty!

To tell the truth and shame the deil, I am as fou as Bartie: But Foorsday, sir, my promise leal, Expect me o' your partie, If on a beastie I can speel, Or hurl in a cartie.

Yours,

Robert Burns.

Mauchlin, Monday night, 10 o'clock.

Song--Will Ye Go To The Indies, My Mary?

Tune--"Will ye go to the Ewe-Bughts, Marion."

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, And leave auld Scotia's sh.o.r.e?

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, Across th' Atlantic roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange, And the apple on the pine; But a' the charms o' the Indies Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true; And sae may the Heavens forget me, When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary, And plight me your lily-white hand; O plight me your faith, my Mary, Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, In mutual affection to join; And curst be the cause that shall part us!

The hour and the moment o' time!

Song--My Highland La.s.sie, O

Tune--"The deuks dang o'er my daddy."

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair, Shall ever be my muse's care: Their t.i.tles a' arc empty show; Gie me my Highland la.s.sie, O.

Chorus.--Within the glen sae bushy, O, Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, I set me down wi' right guid will, To sing my Highland la.s.sie, O.

O were yon hills and vallies mine, Yon palace and yon gardens fine!

The world then the love should know I bear my Highland La.s.sie, O.

But fickle fortune frowns on me, And I maun cross the raging sea!

But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my Highland la.s.sie, O.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, I know her heart will never change, For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland la.s.sie, O.

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, For her I'll trace a distant sh.o.r.e, That Indian wealth may l.u.s.tre throw Around my Highland la.s.sie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand, By secret troth and honour's band!

Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, I'm thine, my Highland la.s.sie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!