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those of Harrington-" To a most stony-hearted maiden
A thought ungentle canna be
The poems of Burns are so generally diffused, that copious
specimens are the less necessary. In addition to what is selected, there is a pleasure in enumerating some which
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest !
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! I have said, that so rich was the ore of the vein of Burns, · that it often breaks forth where it could least be expected.
Among his neglected songs is a ditty called “Bessy and her Spinning-wheel," which, for pure and felicitous moral sentiment, and scenic description, such as only Burns could have given, is worthy of being oftener noticed. In a neglected song called “ The Posy,” among many fine stanzas is this exquisite one:
The hawthorn I will pu',
And it's a' to make a posy to my ain dear May. In the song called “ The Auld Man,” the first stanza, describing the return of Spring, is no way remarkable ; the second is strikingly fine and pathetic :
I believe the song_" Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary?”
is not an admired one. The impression it makes may not be very intelligible according to any known poetical creed; but that simple song makes itself be felt. It has much of the character of the finest specimens of the old love-ballad :
O! sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;
Can never equal thine. There is another song called “ The Waefu' Heart,” little noticed, though it must be admired by every mind of feeling, which has this exclamation breathed by bereaved affection and pious resignation :
This waefu' heart lies low with his
Whose heart was only mine;-
But I maun nae repine.
of his filial regard for Scotland in his boyhood, is this fine incidental burst of nationality :
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide
Among the bearded bear,
And spared the symbol dear. There is no doubt that this stanza records a real fact, and that the young enthusiastic husbandman may have spared the noxious weed for the sake of the cherished sentiment. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thy slender stem ;
Thou bonny gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' spreckled breast,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The Aaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O'clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies !
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er !
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
To misery's brink,
. He, ruin'd, sink !
Even thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom.