POEM S. WINTER, A DIRGE. THE wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"* The joyless winter day Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May : The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul, The leafless trees my fancy please, * Dr. Young Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. With the exception of one or two songs, this Dirge is the earliest of all the Poet's compositions: Gilbert Burns calls it a juvenile production, but assigns no date; it was written before the death of his father. That Burns thought well of it himself we have his own testimony. In his memoranda of April 1784, he says, "There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more—I do not know if I should call it pleasure -but something which exalts me-something which enraptures me-than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion; my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, walks on the wings of the wind.' In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a Dirge.'" Sorrow gave a melancholy colouring to the Poet's thoughts early in life, and induced him to love the sublimity of the tempestuous sky, and the grandeur of the shaken woods. 6 THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, "O thou, whose lamentable face A neibor herd-callan. "Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will; his flock increase, and grow So may To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'! "Tell him he was a master kin' “O, bid him save their harmless lives Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o'corn. "An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care; An' if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! An' warn him, what I winna name, "An' niest my yowie, silly thing, But ay keep mind to moop an' mell Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel. "And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, "Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; And clos'd her een amang the dead. |