STORATION FROM ILLNESS.

[The following lines were enclosed in a letter written by Burns on the 4th of April, 1789, to Mrs. Dunlop, the 23rd of that month, St.Georges Day, having been especially set apart as a day of National Thanksgiving for the King's recovery, when His Majesty himself attended in person in St. Paul's Cathedral.]

O SING a new song to the Lord,

Make, all and every one,

A joyful noise, even for the King His restoration.

The sons of Belial in the land

Did set their heads together; "Come, let us sweep them off," said they, "Like an o'erflowing river."

They set their heads together, I say,
They set their heads together;
On right, on left, and every hand,
We saw none to deliver.

Thou madest strong two chosen ones,
To quell the Wicked's pride;
That Young Man great in Issachar—
The burden-bearing tribe.

And him-among the Princes chief
In our Jerusalem—

The Judge that 's mighty in thy law-
The man that fears thy name.

Pity our Kirk also; For she by tribulations

Is now brought very low.

Consume that high-place Patronage,
From off Thy holy hill;

And in Thy fury burn the book—
Even of that man M'Gill.

Now hear our pray'r, accept our song,
And fight Thy chosen's battle;
We seek but little, Lord, from Thee,
Thou kens we get as little.

-0

VERSES ABOUT NAETHING.

[These verses, first published in 1868 by Alexander Smith, as addressed extempore by Burns to Gavin Hamilton, were afterwards proved to have been unquestionably his, by being found among his authentic holographs in the Glenriddel Manuscripts. The effusion was obviously penned by the Poet when he was meditating his departure from Scotland in the autumn of 1786 for the Island of Jamaica.]

To you, Sir, this summons I've sent, Pray whip till the pownie is fraething;

But if you demand what I want,
I honestly answer you, naething.

strength,

Began to faint and fail;

Even as two howling, ravening wolves To dogs do turn their tail.

Th' ungodly o'er the just prevailed,
For so Thou hadst appointed;
That Thou might'st greater glory give
Unto Thine own anointed.

For idly just living and breathing, While people of every degree

Are busy employed about-naething.

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,

And grumble his hurdies their claith

ing;

He'll find, when the balance is cast,

He's gane to the devil for-naething.

The chill behest disarmed his Muse, Till Passion all impatient grew :

He wrote, and hinted for excuse,

Owns not the lap of earth where rests the

royal head!

His wretched refuge, dark despair,

And distant far the faithful few

Who would his sorrows share.

II.

False flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of

yore:

We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,

To prove our loyal truth-we can no

more;

And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway, Submissive, low, adore.

Ye honoured, mighty Dead

Who nobly perished in the glorious

cause,

Your King, your Country, and her

Laws,

From great Dundee, who smiling Victory

led,

And fell a martyr in her arms

What breast of northern mould but warms?—

To bold Balmerino's undying name, Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,

Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim:

Not unrevenged your fate shall lie,
It only lags, the fatal hour;
Your blood shall with incessant cry

Awake at last the unsparing Power :
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along
With doubling speed, and gathering
force,

Till, crashing deep, it whelms the cottage in the vale;

wear

Shall with resistless might assail—