Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain, Who boldly daur thy cause maintain In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, In spite o' dark banditti stabs At worth an' merit, By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, O Ayr! my dear, my native ground, A candid lib'ral band is found Of public teachers, As men, as christians too, renown'd, Sir, in that circle you are nam'd; Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd (Which gies you honour) Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd, An' winning manner. Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, But to his utmost would befriend Ought that belang'd ye. It is, perhaps, enough to say of this epistle that the gentleman to whom it is addressed was a worthy minister in the west of Scotland, who believed and preached the New Light: and that it was written as an envelope to "Holy Willie's Prayer," of which it seems this reverend person had requested a copy. It fixes the limit, at least, of the religious controversy, and shows that the poet was weary of working in the cause of the children of the New Light. "My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, Is grown right eerie now she's done it, Lest they shou'd blame her, An' rouse their holy thunder on it And anathem her." TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion. An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, 'Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear. "The charm," says Jeffrey " of the fine lines, written on turning up a mouse's nest with the plough, will be found to consist in the simple tenderness of the delineation." It has higher beauties, viz. the poet's regret that man's power has broken the social union of nature, and induces a "fellow-mortal” to fly in terror from his face, and the pathetic reference to his own condition-he shrinks from the contemplation of the present, and he dreads the future. The field on the farm of Mossgiel is still pointed out and visited in which Burns composed this grand moral poem: he loved to muse at the plough, and when the day was fine he usually added a few verses to his works in hand, or imagined others. I have seen the Mouse" sharply criticized for that very simplicity of delineation which Jeffrey observed in it, and the fine verse commencing with 66 'That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,' quoted as a proof of weakness and want of vigour of expression. My eloquent friend Carlyle has spoken with feeling and understanding on this point. A virtue as of mountain breezes, and of green fields, dwells in his poetry; it is redolent of natural life, and hardy natural man. There is a decisive strength in him, and yet a |