The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

115

20

They 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;

25

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe,

And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;

45

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,

"T will make your courage rise.

'T will make a man forget his woe;
"T will heighten all his joy;

'T will make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

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55

60

BURNS.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOL.

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

5

228 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.

The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts,

That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;

If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,

They're left, the whitening stanes amang,

In gasping death to wallow.

staring 10

15

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

wept grief

As Poet Burns came by,

That, to a bard, I should be seen

Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev'n as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,

As nature gave them me,

20

offered

25

precipice

30

I am, although I say 't mysel,

Worth gaun a mile to see.

going

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, linnet 45

The mavis mild and mellow;

The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storms;
And coward maukins sleep secure,
Low in their grassy forms:

The shepherd here shall make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;

Or find a sheltering safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
As empty idle care.

thrush

50

ares

55

60

The flowers shall vie in all their charms

Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, And misty mountain, grey;

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering through the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

70

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool

My lowly banks o'erspread,

And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery bed!

75

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;

80

And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embowering thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour'd native land!

So may through Albionugh's farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be-"Athol's honest men,

And Athol's bonnie lasses!"

BURNS.

85

EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON.

TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear: Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care

Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? 5 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm?

Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine:

Ev'n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm.