And years sinsyne* hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maunt face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our bills and valleys gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers :
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braės.
Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile :
But I wi' my sweet narslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd vights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
O wae upon you, men o'state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
How can your Ainty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie, hanie to Logan braes !

Burns.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HEN

SON
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,

And pierc'd my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,

In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,

My age's future shade.

The mother-linnet in the brake

Bewails her ravish'd young;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,

Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've feard thy fatal blow,

Now, fond I bare my breast, 0, do thou kindly lay me low

With him I love, at rest.

Burns.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Edward! chains and slaverie!

VOL. V.

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',

Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

Burns.

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. Thickest night o'erbang my dwelling!

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blo

Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But tbe Heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us

But a world without a friend!

Burns.

SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEAR

ING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,

See aged Winter, mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, author of this opening day! Thou whose bright Sun now gilds yon orient

skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

Burns.

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pin’d,
Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
The turtle dove or pelican :

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness bless'd,
Which may merit name of best;

If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,