Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy b.l.o.o.d.y bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

CII.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.

[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.--Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.]

_Ellisland, 21st Oct._ 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!

And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?

I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the heron south!

And never drink be near his drouth!

He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, He'd tak my letter: I lippen'd to the chief in trouth, And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron, Had at the time some dainty fair one, To ware his theologic care on, And holy study; And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on E'en tried the body.

But what dy'e think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a gauger--Peace be here!

Parna.s.sian queans, I fear, I fear, Ye'll now disdain me!

And then my fifty pounds a year Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, Ye ken, ye ken, That strang necessity supreme is 'Mang sons o' men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is-- I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms--thraw saugh woodies, Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!

I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers: But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers?

Come, firm Resolve, take then the van, Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

And let us mind, faint-heart ne'er wan A lady fair: Wha does the utmost that he can, Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie, As e'er tread clay!

And gratefully, my guid auld c.o.c.kie, I'm yours for ay,

ROBERT BURNS.

CIII.

DELIA.

AN ODE.

[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789.

It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's song, by a Person of Quality.

"These lines are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, then recited "Delia, an Ode."]

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose, But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flow'r-enamoured busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;--

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!

O, let me steal one liquid kiss!

For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love.

CIV.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

[John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of gla.s.s in Drumlanrig castle.

"Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!

No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!

O may no son the father's honour stain, Nor ever daughter give the mother pain."

How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]

O, could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send!

Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend.