.

they want.

      Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care!

      I’m weary sick o’t late and air!

      Not but I hae a richer share

      Than mony ithers:

      But why should ae man better fare,

      And a’ men brithers?

      Come, firm Resolve, take then 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 dainty chuckie,

      As e’er tread clay!

      And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,

      I’m yours for ay,

      Robert Burns.

      CIII. DELIA. AN ODE

      [These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope’s song, by a Person of Quality. “These lines are beyond you,” he added: “the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London.” Burns mused a moment, then recited “Delia, an Ode.”]

      Fair the face of orient day,

      Fair the tints of op’ning rose,

      But fairer still my Delia dawns,

      More lovely far her beauty blows.

      Sweet the lark’s wild-warbled lay,

      Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;

      But, Delia, more delightful still

      Steal thine accents on mine ear.

      The flow’r-enamoured busy bee

      The rosy banquet loves to sip;

      Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse

      To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip;—

      But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

      Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!

      O, let me steal one liquid kiss!

      For, oh! my soul is parch’d with love.

      CIV. TO JOHN M’MURDO, ESQ

      [John M’Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle.

      “Blest be M’Murdo to his latest day!

      No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray;

      No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,

      Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!

      O may no son the father’s honour stain,

      Nor ever daughter give the mother pain.”

      How fully the poet’s wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]

      O, could I give thee India’s wealth,

      As I this trifle send!

      Because thy joy in both would be

      To share them with a friend.

      But golden sands did never grace

      The Heliconian stream;

      Then take what gold could never buy—

      An honest Bard’s esteem.

      CV. PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, 1 JAN. 1790

      [This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year’s night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]

      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 flushed 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 yon 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, tho’ 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 feel it.

      CVI. SCOTS PROLOGUE, FOR MR. SUTHERLAND’S BENEFIT NIGHT, DUMFRIES

      [Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from his tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.—Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]

      What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on,

      How this new play an’ that new sang is comin’?

      Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?

      Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?

      Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,

      Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?

      For