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Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem❜ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD

ᎠᏁᎬᎡ.

THIS wot ye all whom it concerns,

I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day,
Sae far I spreckled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did słoken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son,
Up higher yet my bonnet;
And sic a Lord-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen;
Except good-sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,

The arrogant assuming;

The feint a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as well's another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care,
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

ON A YOUNG LADY,

Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding De[ing fair;

von,

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers bloomBut the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose, A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. VOL. XXXVIII. C c

CASTLE GORDON.

I.

STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands:
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle Gordon.

II.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by Castle Gordon.

III.

Wildly here without control,

Nature reigns and rules the whole;

In that sober pensive mood,

Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood;

Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle Gordon.*

NAE-BODY.

I HAE a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' nae-body;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body.

I hae a penny to spend,

There-thanks to nae-body;

I hae nothing to lend,
I'll borrow frae nae-body.

I am nae-body's lord,

I'll be slave to nae-body;

I hae a guid braid sword,

I'll tak dunts frae nae-body.

I'll be merry and free,

I'll be sad for nae-body;
If nae-body care for me,
I'll care for nae-body.

* These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond.

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