Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dantie chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,

I'm yours for ay.

ROBERT BURNS.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND, ON NEW-YEARDAY EVENING:

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste-the more's the pity:
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good new year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
'You're one year older this important day,'
If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word-think!"

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;

That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him;
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!

To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important—now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, though haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feed it.

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize,
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid the' accomplished Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ;
Ye mossy streams with sedge and rushes stor❜d;

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes whose cumb'rous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a muse an honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, [spheres; Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care:
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree,
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE
SONG.

By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars:
We dare na' weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame;
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the

yerd:

It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

SONG OF DEATH.

Scene-a field of battle; time of the day-evening; the wound. ed and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following Song.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye

skies,

Now gay with the bright setting sun;

Farewell, loves and friendship, ye dear, tender ties, Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name :

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,

Our King and our country to save

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!