He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding:
He dealt it free:

The muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,

And fou o' glee ;

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie ;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the sea!

In a copy of the Kilmarnock edition now before me, some one has so far mistaken the matter as to write that Burns composed this poem on the departure of John Gerron-a sorry rhymer-for the West Indies. Every word of it is about himself-his story is even dwelt on with a painful minuteness. It is true that poor Gerron

went abroad, wrote a poem on his own experiences, and went so far as to publish a volume of verse, which contained here and there a stroke of country wit, and exhibited a true domestic picture at the rate of two to a hundred pages. But he was a man ten years younger, perhaps, than Burns; and indeed it was the great success of the Ayrshire Ploughman which induced the Galwegian blacksmith to " 'lean o'er his anvil" and think of rhyme. I have heard Wordsworth praise the ready flow of verse in this poem, and recite with much emotion the eighth and ninth stanzas.

Burns in this poem, as well as in others, speaks freely of himself. An old man of the west of Scotland, who still lives to remember him with affection, says-" He was subject to great fluctuation of spirits-sometimes he was so depressed that he would shun his most intimate friends; and when observing any one he knew approaching him on the road, he hesitated not to leap over a hedge, or strike into another path, to avoid being disturbed." He was at such periods as likely to be in a poetic reverie as in a melancholy one.

THE FAREWELL.

"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single woes?
But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair,

To those whose bless, whose beings hang upon him,
To helpless children! then, O then! he feels
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart,

And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.
Such, such am I ! undone !"

THOMSON'S EDWARD AND ELEANORA.

I.

FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains

Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft
Of my parental care;

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

VOL. II.

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,
O then befriend my Jean!

U

II.

What bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jeany, must I part!
Thou weeping answ'rest no!
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!

All-hail then, the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles, and whistles

I'll never see thee more!

These very touching stanzas were composed when the prospects of the poet darkened, and he looked towards the West-Indies as a place of refuge, and perhaps of hope. 'My Smith, my bosom frien'," is the same person to whom one of his best Epistles is addressed : and" Hamilton and Aiken dear" were at that period his chief advisers and patrons. The lines were first published in the Rev. Hamilton Paul's edition of the works of Burns-their authenticity is unquestionable.

A DEDICATION

ΤΟ

GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like his grace;
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may

do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;

For me! sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ;

And when I downa yoke a naig,

Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
Its just sic poet, an' sic patron.