Thro' a' her veins in rapture glide,

An' greet the day

That sees the Bard o' Leven side

Now raise the lay.

Ye've heard I'm gaun in prent, I trou,
I fear I shall be roos'd by few,

An' that they'll gar me leuk right blue,

An' sair perplex me;

War I Castalian-bred like you,

'Twad never vex me.

It's unco up-hill wark I hae,

In speelin' that Aonian brae,

While Burns, an' you, an' twa three mae,

Just in a rap,

Spring lichtly, like the boundin' rae,

₹

To the vera tap.

I've seen o' late fu' mony a howe,
An' claw, owre soon, an' auld man's pow;
But while, wi' youthfu' bluid, ve glow,

An' Natʼral Merit,

Ye've Inspiration's holy lowe

To fire your spirit.

Blyth as the Lav'rock frae her nest,
While Mornin' dew yet bathes her breast,

Ye proudly soar aboon the rest,

Your Loves to sing;

Nae Poverty, that blightin' pest,

To clog your wing.

Thus Burns-a name to Scotland dear,
In glorious flight beyond our sphere,
At first, o'er Midnight's darkness drear

Bad, Mornin' glow,

An' left this nether warl' to stare

An' wonder how.

The sacred mantle he let fa',

Nae doubt, gars you your chanter blaw,

In strains sae sweet aboon us a',

As weel may grieve us,

To think to kintries far awa',

Ye're gaun to leave us.

An', maun the saul o' fun an' glee,

Leave the kind hearts on Kirkland lee,

In dowie mood to grieve wi' me,

Their Friend awa,

Far frae us a'.

In peril on the Indian Sea,

Our only joy, wha bide at hame,
Will be to hear the trump o' Fame,
O'er the hail lan' your worth proclaim,

While Scotland mourns,

To lose anither valued name

Like Robin Burns.

How aften Fate the bosom tries,
In severin' Friendship's dearest ties!

We needna pride in ony joys

That pleasure gie us;

For aften thae we highest prize,

Are first taen frae us.

O, if the Knabs ayont the sea, But like hauf sae weel as me, ye

An' hae the haun an' heart to gie

A bodle frae them,

Hard poortith's fang ye'll never dree,

As lang's ye're wi' them.

May never Care, wi' cauld airnhaun,
Cramp you aneath its stern commaun ;

Sportive as lambkin on the lawn,

Or sunny hill,

I wiss ye lang coud greet the dawn,

At Kirkland Mill:

Might we nae yet advise an' pray :
O, Davy, man! consent to stay,
An' dinna leave, sae dowf an' wae,

The hearts ye loo:

«Na, na", methinks I hear ye say,

"It winna do."

Weel, sin' ye will sic perils dare,
Your Bark, may Winds in mercy spare,
Ilk joy an' pleasure may ye share,

Your hail life lang:

Ye'll hae an interest in my prayer

Whare'er ye gang.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF R***** C*******, Esq. of D***.

WHILE Valour on the tented plain,
The bubble Fame intent pursues,
And, trampling over heaps of slain,
In hostile blood his hand embrues,
Hope sees the living Laurel bloom,
Or writes IMMORTAL on his tomb.

How worthier of Immortal Fame,

The mind with Virtue's Lore imbued,
Whose wishes court no greater name,
Than that of being greatly good;
Such as he liv'd to Virtue dear,

Whose name the Muse would hallow here.

Who never felt a nobler pride,

In all the gifts by Fortune given,

Than o'er Misfortune to preside,

The bounteous almoner of Heaven;

To turn Distress's humble bed,
And lighten Misery's aching head.