Hail Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd Mid a' thy favours!

Say, La.s.sie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?

They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters; I pa.s.s by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan-- There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!

Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, A chiel sae clever; The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, In thy sweet Caledonian lines; Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, Where Philomel, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie la.s.ses bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell O' witchin' love; That charm that can the strongest quell, The sternest move.

Cx.x.xV.

SONNET,

WRITTEN ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH OF JANUARY, 1793,

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.

[Burns was fond of a saunter in a leafless wood, when the winter storm howled among the branches. These characteristic lines were composed on the morning of his birthday, with the Nith at his feet, and the ruins of Lincluden at his side: he is willing to accept the unlooked-for song of the thrush as a fortunate omen.]

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So, in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank Thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!

Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away.

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

Cx.x.xVI.

SONNET,

ON THE

DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.

OF GLENRIDDEL,

APRIL, 1794.

[The death of Glencairn, who was his patron, and the death of Glenriddel, who was his friend, and had, while he lived at Ellisland, been his neighbor, weighed hard on the mind of Burns, who, about this time, began to regard his own future fortune with more of dismay than of hope. Riddel united antiquarian pursuits with those of literature, and experienced all the vulgar prejudices entertained by the peasantry against those who indulge in such researches. His collection of what the rustics of the vale called "queer quairns and swine-troughs," is now scattered or neglected: I have heard a competent judge say, that they threw light on both the public and domestic history of Scotland.]

No more, ye warblers of the wood--no more!

Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!

And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

Cx.x.xVII.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. R----'S BIRTHDAY.

[By compliments such as these lines contain, Burns soothed the smart which his verses "On a lady famed for her caprice" inflicted on the accomplished Mrs. Riddel.]

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,-- What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow: My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day!