Here again, in another style, is something which, although not very poetical, is, we think, very striking. Burns himself has spoken of it as a "wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification"; "but," it is added, "as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over":

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O;

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O;

He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;

For without an honest manly heart no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;

Though to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O; My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O; Resolved was I at least to try to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O;
Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each endeavour, O;
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpowered, sometimes by friends forsaken, O ;
And when my hope was at the top I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harassed, and tired at last, with fortune's vain delusion, O,
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 0:—
The past was bad, the future hid - its good or ill untried, O;
But the present hour was in my power, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O;
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred was a match for fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, through life I'm doomed to wander, O,
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O;
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O,
I live to-day as well 's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O.

But, cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,
Though fortune's frown still hunts me down with all her wonted malice, O:
I make, indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O;
But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me, O;
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natured folly, O;
But, come what will, I've sworn it still I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

All
you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss you leave your views the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, 0.

These extracts, as extracts in every case must be, are only indications or hints of what is to be found in the body of poetry from which they are taken; and in this instance, from various causes,

the impression so conveyed may probably be more than usually inadequate, for the strangeness of the dialect must veil much of the effect to an English reader, even when the general sense is apprehended; and, besides, their length, their peculiarly Scottish spirit and character, and other considerations have prevented us from quoting the most successful of Burns's pieces in some of the styles in which he most excelled. But still what we have transcribed may serve to give a more extended and a truer notion of what his poetry really is than is commonly entertained by strangers, among whom he is mostly known and judged of from two or three of his compositions, which perhaps of all that he has produced are the least marked by the peculiar character of his genius. Even out of his own country, his Songs, to be sure, have taken all heartsand they are the very flame-breath of his own. No truer poetry exists in any language, or in any form. But it is the poetry of the heart much more than of either the head or the imagination. Burns's songs do not at all resemble the exquisite lyrical snatches with which Shakspeare, and also Beaumont and Fletcher, have sprinkled some of their dramas — enlivening the busy scene and progress of the action as the progress of the wayfarer is enlivened by the voices of birds in the hedgerows, or the sight and scent of wildflowers that have sprung up by the road-side. They are never in any respect exercises of ingenuity, but always utterances of passion, and simple and direct as a shout of laughter or a gush of tears. Whatever they have of fancy, whatever they have of melody, is born of real emotion is merely the natural expression of the poet's feeling at the moment, seeking and finding vent in musical words. Since "burning Sappho" loved and sung in the old isles of Greece, not much poetry has been produced so thrillingly tender as some of the best of these songs. Here, for example, is one, rude enough perhaps in language and versification, — but every line, every cadence is steeped in pathos:

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie! 1

There summer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry!

1 Turbid with mud.

VOL. II.

56

These compositions are so universally known, that it is needless to give any others at full length; but we may throw together a few verses and half-verses gathered from several of them :—