1806, } 
And fing the myfleries of thy humble birth, 
How, like the daify, firft thou ‘* glented” 
forth, 
*Mid ftorms of life, and poverty fevere, 
I’ th’ ** auld clay bigging’’ on the banks of 
Ayr. 
See, in that fterile foil, the Seottifh 
Mufe, 
With foftering care, the feeds of fong infufe 
Into thy infant brea, while round thy brow 
She binds her facred gift, the folly bough ; 
And heaven-born Genius, from the realms 
of day, 
Pour on thofe germs the intelle€tual ray ; 
Then glowing vifions, rich, luxuriant, ftrong, 
Sublimely rife in thy harmonious fong. 
Nature unveils to thy poetic eye 
Her every form, her every varied dye 5 
Then with a mafter’s hand we fee thee trace 
Her every feature with a charming grace ; 
Draw forth the landfcape in the firain fub- 
lime, 
From every feafon and from every clime. 
See virgin Spring, by thee in daifies dreft, 
The bloffom’d hawthorn deck her fragrant 
breatt ; 
And dazzling Summer, miftrefs of the year, 
In robes of light, of rofy hue, appear ; 
See mellow Autumn, rich, by plenty 
crown’d, 
Serenely fmiling, deal her bleffings round ; 
And ruthlefs Winter, raging o’er the plain, 
With ftorms and tempeits howling in her 
train. 
The Paffions, too, upon thy call attend, 
And to thy tuneful ftrains fubmiffive bend 5 
Love, firft in power, demands the votive 
fong ; 
In melting meafures then the harp is ftrung ; 
To fcenes of tranfport, “mong the broory 
knows ,* 
Where happy lovers breathe their mutual 
VOWS ; 
The fond embrace, the fweet haif-granted 
kifs ; 
The tender figh, that wakes a world of blifs; 
Thofe dear-bewitching, modeit {miles that 
dart 
Their powerful influence on th’ enraptur’d 
heart : 
Thefe balmy breathings of thy heaven-taught 
lyre ; 
Warm every heart, fet every foul on fire. 
Hope, dear companion of the fpotlefs breaft, 
Points to fome diftant blifs yet unpoffet 5 
With views of future happine(s the cheers 
The woe-worn pilgrim in this vale of tears. 
Next trembling Fear, unable to controul 
The dark forebodings of the guilty foul 5 
“Lo there fhe goes unpitied and unbleft ; 
#¢ She goes, but not to realms of everlatting 
reft.”” 
¥ Bille. 
Original Poetry. 
43% 
See Sorrow mourning o’er thofe ills of life . 
Man heaps on man, by cruelty and ftrife, 
When mad Ambition mounts the blood- 
ftain’d car, 
And wields the defolating fword of War, 
Till fome great Wallace rife and ftrike the 
blow 
That hurls a tyrant to the fhades below ; 
Thén Peace, fair daughter of the cloudlefs 
? 
Defcends, re wipes the tear from every eye. 
Difcord and Hatred, with their bloated train 
Of felfith aims, fhall yvanifh from the plain, . 
And man to man, by mutual good allied, 
Shall brothers be, ard lay their feuds afide, 
Mirth next in fportive meafure trips along, 
And beats refponfive to thy ’witching fong 5 
Around th’ infpiring bowl her joyous crew - 
The laugh, the fong, and merry tale, pure 
fue; 
Or mingling in the dance upon the green, 
With cheerful ruftics hail their rural queen. 
Now fly Hypocrify comes gravely on, 
Affumes the faint, and heaves a godly groan; 
While from her hollow rotten heart arife 
Fraud, fcandal, long loud prayers, and lies : 
Her voice is lifted upin holy wrath, 
To wither frailty with her peifoning breath ; 
Prefumes to wield Heav’ns own avenging rod, | 
And pour on man th’ imputed wrath of God. 
But fee true Piety benign appear, 
And o’er weak Nature fhed the pitying tear, 
And foftly fay, as faid her Lord before, 
Thee Icondemn not, go and fin no more ¢ 
Relieve pale Mifery from the jaws of Want 5 
To fuffering Worth her aid in fecret grant. 
Then fee her, when her pleafing taf is: 
oer, S 
Of yielding fuccour tothe humble poor, 
Bend o’er the ‘* big ha’ Bible,” and her 
God adore. 
Thus fung th’ immortal Bard, whofe hoe 
nour’d name 
Now ranks with Heroes in the rolls of fame, 
His flumbering harp unftrung, now hangs 
fupine, 
No minftrel left to wake its powers divine : 
The mighty mafter met his haplefs doom, 
Untimely call’d to fill an early tomb. 
O Scotia ! to thy Burns fome trophy raife, 
To waft his facred name to future days. 
No monument yet rears his grateful head, 
To mark his worth, or foothe his tuneful 
fhade ; 
No tombftone o’er his hallow'd afhes rife, 
To tell the ftranger where thy poet lies : 
The firft of bards e’er tun’d thy oaten reed, 
Sleeps undifinguifh’d ’mong the common 
dead. 
But yet, when ages fhall have pafs’d away, 
And ftately domes have'mouldex’d down to 
clay, 
When brazen ftatues yield (as yield they 
muff, ) 
To wafting age, and crumble into duft, a 
; ie 
