of witches, and ghosts, and fairies, that even in after life be could scarcely be out alone after nightfall without uneasiness. After his father's death Burns joined his brother in the small farm of Mossgiel, which will ever be associated with the purest and perhaps brightest period of his poetic development. Circumstances induced Burns to give up the farm entirely, and prepare to leave for the West Indies. To enable him to raise money to pay his passage, he thought of publishing an edition of his poems, which were first issued in 1786. Probably no collection of poems ever excited so instantaneous a sensation over a whole nation. So eagerly was the book sought after, that not a copy could be got; and so impatient was the public, that MS. copies of many of the pieces were passed from hand to hand. Of course the West Indies was no more thought of.

Unfortunately for Burns, the age in which he lived was one of extreme conviviality, and the author of such songs was of course quite a prize at convivial parties. Burns fell into the temptation, and to the end of his short, too short career, he never recovered the command of his appetites. The success of his poems made Burns now a comparatively rich man; a new edition of his poems yielded him L.500, and with a generosity which was part of his character, he sent off L.200 of it to help his struggling brother at Mossgiel. With the remainder he stocked the farm of Ellisland, near Dumfries, where he resolved to turn over a new leaf. His resolutions were, however, never put into practice, for, unfortunately, to eke out his income, he had obtained the post of gauger or exciseman for the district. This position necessarily brought him still further into temptation, and was the cause of much of the misery of his after life. In 1788 he was married to Jean Armour, by whom he had several children. In Ellisland his pen was ever busy; and not less beautiful than his songs were his letters, which bear the same stamp of genius as his other productions. There also was composed "Tam O'Shanter," which he himself considered to be his masterpiece. Had Burns lived, he intended to have produced some more enlarged pieces; but his early death, on the 21st July 1796, in his 38th year, put a final period to all these plans.

FROM "THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT."

THE cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;

fire

once

gray cheeks

Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name,

selects

Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, adds fuel to The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page—
How Abram was the friend of GOD on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme-
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How HE, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:
How his first followers and servants sped,
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land :
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

no, have

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then, kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

TO A MOUSE.

On turning up her Nest with the Plough.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!

not, so

hasty clatter

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion
And fellow-mortal!

would, loath, run

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,

And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

ploughstaff

sometimes

must

ear of corn, 24 sheaves

small

rest

little, house

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! weak, walls, winds

And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green,

And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

And weary winter comin' fast,

build, one

rank grass

both sharp

And cozie here, beneath the blast,

comfortable

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed
Out through thy cell.

ploughshare

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

stubble

many

without, hold

endure, drizzle hoar-frost, cold

alone

go oft wrong

leave

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only, toucheth thee:
But, oh! I backward cast my ee,
On prospects drear!

And forward, though I canna see,
I guess and fear.

DEATH AND DR HORNBOOK.

I THERE WI' Something did forgather,
That put me in an eerie swither;

eye

meet with

dismal hesitation

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, over one shoulder
Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-taed leister on the ither pronged fish-spear, other
Lay, large and lang.

Its stature seemed lang Scotch ells twa,

The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For NOT a wame it had ava;

And then, its shanks,

They were as thin, as sharp and sma',

As cheeks o' branks.*

long

two

belly, at all

legs

"Guid e'en," quo' I;"Friend, hae ye been mawin,'

When ither folks are busy sawin'?"

It seemed to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

[good even, mowing

other, sowing

At length says I, "Friend, where ye gaun- where, going
Will ye go back?"

It spak right howe- My name is Death,
But be na fley'd." Quoth I," Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie

I rede ye weel tak care o' scaith,
See, there's a gully!"

hollow frightened

stop

observe, my lad

advise, well, harm clasp-knife

"Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, weapon

I'm no designed to try its mettle;

But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd;

I wadna mind it, no that spittle

Out-owre my beard."

would, difficult

so baulked

over

* A wooden frame, forming, with a rope, a bridle for troublesome cows

and horses.

"Weel, weel," says I, "a bargain be't;

well

Come, gie's your hand, and say we're gree't; give, agreed We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat

Come, gie's your news;

This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house."

"Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head,
"Its e'en a lang, lang time indeed

Sin' I began to nick the thread,

And choke the breath:

legs

some time, road

many

Folk maun do something for their bread,
And sae maun Death.

FROM "THE TWA DOGS."
TWA dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgathered ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs,
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar,
Showed him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
NAE HAET CONCEIT―nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin'
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And FRISK OWRE stanes and hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,

Was made langsyne-nane kens how lang.
He was a gash and faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,

shaggy, ragged

over, stones

other, dog

blade

called

(Ossian) none, knows

sagacious jumped, ditch plump, brindled

Y