EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. Nae mair we see his levée door [Written at Selkirk during the Poet's Border tour and addressed to his Edinburgh publisher, then on a visit in London. Mr. Creech died in 1815, at the age of seventy. His bookshop was for many years the rendezvous of all the wits of the Scotch capital, where Creech's Levées, as they were called, were long remembered.] The adjutant o' a' the core, Willie's awa'! Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, Now every sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, His quill may draw ; Up wimpling, stately Tweed I've sped, While tempests blaw; May I be slander's common speech; The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer Amang them a'; I fear they'll now mak' mony a stammer, Though far awa'! May never wicked fortune touzle him! Until a pow as auld's Methusalem He canty claw! Then to the blessèd New Jerusalem, Fleet wing awa'! ON SCARING SOME WATERFOWL IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMID THE HILLS OF OUGH TERTYRE, [Burns when he wrote this was staying for a few days, in 1787, on a visit to Sir William and Lady Augusta Murray, at their beautiful residence in Perthshire.] WHY, ye tenants of the lake, For me your watery haunt forsake? Or, beneath the sheltering rock, The eagle, from the cliffy brow, And creatures for his pleasure slain. The outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills: The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride, The palace, rising on its verdant side; The lawns, wood-fringed, in Nature's native taste; THE HERMIT. WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD IN THE ing, The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless WHOE'ER thou art these lines now readhaste; The arches, striding o'er the new-born Think not, though from the world reced stream; ing, The village, glittering in the noontide I joy my lonely days to lead in beam Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, The sweeping theatre of hanging woods! Here Poesy might wake her Heaventaught lyre, This desert drear; That fell remorse, a conscience bleeding, No thought of guilt my bosom sours; And look through Nature with creative I saw mankind with vice incrusted; fire; I saw that Honour's sword was rusted; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half recon- That few for aught but folly lusted; ciled, Misfortune's lightened steps might wan der wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, That he was still deceived who trusted Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling In this lone cave, in garments lowly, Alike a foe to noisy folly wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heaven- And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, ward stretch her scan, I wear away And injured Worth forget and pardon My life, and in my office holy man. Consume the day. This rock my shield, when storms are blowing; The limpid streamlet yonder flowing THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER, TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. [Written at the suggestion of Professor Walker, who was tutor in the Duke of Athole's family, when Burns, during the course of his third northern tour, visited the Falls of Bruar and, his Grace being from home at the time, was most hospitably and graciously entertained by the Duchess. The firs and ash-trees for which the Poet pleaded in the name of the Falls were, in compliance with his artistic request, afterwards planted by the Duke in abundance.] MY LORD, I know your noble ear The lightly-jumping glowering trouts, Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, He, kneeling, wad adored me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, Enjoying large each spring and well, Would then my noble master please To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees, And bonnie spreading bushes; Delighted doubly then, my Lord, You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird Return your tuneful thanks. The sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, Shall sweetly join the choir; The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive Autumn cheer, In all her locks of yellow. This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flowers; Or find a sheltering safe retreat, From prone descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty, idle care: The flowers shall vie in all their charms The hour of heaven to grace, Here haply too, at vernal dawn, |