LITMIR.BIZ

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by a generous Public’s kind acclaim,

      That dearest meed is granted—honest fame;

      When here your favour is the actor’s lot,

      Nor even the man in private life forgot;

      What breast so dead to heavenly virtue’s glow,

      But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe?

      Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,

      It needs no Siddons’ powers in Southerne’s song;

      But here an ancient nation fam’d afar,

      For genius, learning high, as great in war—

      Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear!

      Before whose sons I’m honoured to appear!

      Where every science—every nobler art—

      That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,

      Is known; as grateful nations oft have found

      Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.

      Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,

      Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam;

      Here History paints, with elegance and force,

      The tide of Empires’ fluctuating course;

      Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,

      And Harley[68] rouses all the god in man.

      When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite,

      With manly lore, or female beauty bright,

      (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,

      Can only charm as in the second place,)

      Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,

      As on this night, I’ve met these judges here!

      But still the hope Experience taught to live,

      Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive.

      Nor hundred-headed Riot here we meet,

      With decency and law beneath his feet:

      Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name;

      Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

      O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand

      Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land!

      Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire:

      May every son be worthy of his sire;

      Firm may she rise with generous disdain

      At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain;

      Still self-dependent in her native shore,

      Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar,

      Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

      LXXXI. SKETCH

      [This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call “The Poet’s Progress.” He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. “The Fragment forms,” said he, “the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching.” It is probable that the professor’s response was not favourable for we hear no more of the Poem.]

      A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,

      And still his precious self his dear delight;

      Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets

      Better than e’er the fairest she he meets:

      A man of fashion, too, he made his tour,

      Learn’d vive la bagatelle, et vive l’amour:

      So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve,

      Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies’ love.

      Much specious lore, but little understood;

      Veneering oft outshines the solid wood:

      His solid sense—by inches you must tell.

      But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;

      His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

      Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

      LXXXII. TO MRS. SCOTT, OF WAUCHOPE

      [The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family; she was the niece of Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful variation of The Flowers of the Forest.]

      I mind it weel in early date,

      When I was beardless, young and blate,

      An’ first could thresh the barn;

      Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;

      An’ tho’ forfoughten sair enough,

      Yet unco proud to learn:

      When first amang the yellow corn

      A man I reckon’d was,

      An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn

      Could rank my rig and lass,

      Still shearing, and clearing,

      The tither stooked raw,

      Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,

      Wearing the day awa.

      E’en then, a wish, I mind its pow’r,

      A wish that to my latest hour

      Shall strongly heave my breast,

      That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake

      Some usefu’ plan or beuk could make,

      Or sing a sang at least.

      The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide

      Amang the bearded bear,

      I turn’d the weeder-clips aside,

      An’ spar’d the symbol dear:

      No nation, no station,

      My envy e’er could raise,

      A Scot still, but blot still,

      I knew nae higher praise.

      But still the elements o’ sang

      In formless jumble, right an’ wrang,

      Wild floated in my brain;

      ’Till on that har’st I said before,

      My partner in the merry core,

      She rous’d the forming strain:

      I see her yet, the sonsie quean,

      That lighted up her jingle,

      Her witching smile, her pauky een

      That gart my heart-strings tingle:

      I fired, inspired,

      At every kindling keek,

      But bashing and dashing

      I feared aye to speak.

      Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,

      Wi’ merry dance in winter days,

      An’ we to share in common:

      The gust o’ joy, the balm of woe,

      The saul o’ life, the heaven below,

      Is rapture-giving woman.

      Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,

      Be mindfu’

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