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Wi' jads or masons;

make

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles dacz't wi' drink,

And whyles, but aye owre late, I think,

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

Commen' me to the bardie clan;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-hac't, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

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Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At hame, a-ficl', at wark, or leisure;

The Muse, poor hizzie!

fist

trouble

Though rough and raploch be her measure, coarse
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you monie a shavic;
But for the Muse, she 'll never leave ye,
Though e'er sae puir,

Na, even though limpin' wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decayed on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But Nature sickened on the ce.
Through faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

'Several of the poems,' says Gilbert Burns, 'were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the

1 Composed on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate.-B. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, afterwards Mrs Cranstoun.

author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy Man was made to Mourn was composed.'

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

'Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?'
Began the reverend sage:

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

'The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

'Oh, man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time;
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

'Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn ;

Then Age and Want-oh ill-matched pair!-Shew man was made to mourn.

'A few seem favourites of fate,

In Pleasure's lap carest;

Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!
Through weary life this lesson learn-
That man was made to mourn.

'Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame;
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

'See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

'If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-
By Nature's law designed-
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and
To make his fellow mourn?

power

'Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

'Oh, Death! the poor man's dearest friend

The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!'

The metrical structure, and some other features of this poem, may be traced to an old stall-ballad, entitled the Life and Age of Man, which Mr Cromek recovered, and which opens thus:เ Upon the sixteen hunder year

Of God and fifty-three,

Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear,

As writings testifie;

On January the sixteenth day,

As I did ly alone,

With many a sigh and sob did say,

Ah! man is made to moan.'

Burns, in a letter to Mrs Dunlop, says: 'I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived while in her girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died; during which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of the Life and Age of Man.'

It would be the wildest injustice to Burns to suppose that even now, when so eager to satirise the more zealous professors of religion in his district, he was himself indifferent on that subject. We see an expression of devout adherence to true religion and undefiled in his letter to Mr M Math in September. In October, he makes a final entry in his first Commonplace-book as follows:—

October 1785.

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and, by consequence, that great fool, Solomon, turned my eyes to behold madness and folly.' Nay, I have, with all the ardour of lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship.

In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity.

The observations are thus broken off-very characteristically; but it is something that the only one he had entered signifies that the poet was a devout man amidst all his errors. In his earlier

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