First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.-
Since then, my honor'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight, pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
The picture contained in this sketch of the fireside of Mrs. Dunlop is equally true and beautiful. That lady herself had not only a fine taste for poetry, but she wrote verses elegant and flowing: her son, the late General Dunlop, exhibited all the courage of his house,
"Few better were or braver;"
and it has been remarked that, for fiery and persevering impetuosity of attack, few officers equalled him. Her daughter Rachel, whose skill in drawing was considerable, employed her pencil, I know not with what success, on the Coila of the Vision. To this Burns refers in one of his letters "I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila. I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet, of his muse Scota-from which, by-the-by, I took the idea of Coila
Ye shake your head, but by my fegs,
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs;
Lang had she lien wi' beffs an' flegs,
Bum-bazed and dizzie ;
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
Waes me, poor hizzie!'"
The Scota of Ross, described by Burns as the forerunner of Coila, figures in the Invocation to "The Fortunate Shepherdess." Some of the lines are pleasing: "Come Scota! thou that anes upon a day,
Gar'd Allan Ramsay's hungry heart-strings play
The merriest sangs that ever yet were sung,
Pity anes mair, for I'm outthrow as clung.
'Tis may be better, I'll tak fat ye gee,
Ye're nae toom-handed, gin yere heart be free;
But I'll be willing, gin ye bid me write,
Blind horse, they say, ride hardly to the fight:
And by gude hap may come again, but scorn—
They are no kempers a' that shear the corn."
Then Scota heard and said "Your rough spun ware
Sounds but right doust and fowsome to my ear :-
Do ye pretend to write like my ain bairn,
Or onie ane that wins beyont the Kairn ?
Ye're far mista'en gin ye think sic a thought,
The Gentle Shepherd's nae sae easy wrought:
There's scenes and acts, there's drift and there's design,
And a' maun like a new-ground whittle shine,
Sic wimpled wark would crack a pow like thine."
"Kind Mistress," says I, "gin this be your fear,
Charge nae mair shot than what the piece'll bear."
"Gae then," she says, "nor deave me wi' your din,
Puff-I inspire you, sae you may begin.
Speak my ain leed-'tis gueed auld Scots I mean,
Your southern gnaps I count not worth a preen:
We've words a fouth that we can ca' our ain,
Though frae them now my childer sair refrain ;
Gin this ye do, and line your rhyme wi' sense,
But ye'll mak' friends o' fremmet fowk, fa kens."
These are homely verses, yet they are felt in the romantic vales of Angus :-and Ross " a wild warlock," as Burns somewhere calls him, is likely to keep the approbation which he coveted-that of his native county.
TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER,
AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.
KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks ;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game :
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin',
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare as yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.—
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790.
The Poet was unwilling to lay himself under obligations, and to soften the refusal of accepting a newspaper free of expense, he declined it in rhyme. He, however, "took the opportunity of making a hasty summary of im
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