For us and for our stage should ony spier, Whose aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?"

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But, like good mithers, shore before you strike.-
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, setts, and ranks :
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks..

AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION,

On being appointed to the Excise.

Searching auld wives' barrels,

Och, oh! the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But-what'll ye say!

These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes!

TO THE OWL-By John M'Creddie*.

Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?

Burns sometimes wrote poems in the old ballad style, which, for reasons best known to himself, he gave to the world as songs of the olden time. That famous soldier's song in particular, first printed in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, General Correspondence, No. LX, beginning

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
An' fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonnie lassie;

Is it some blast that gathers in the north,
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r?

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that winter will thy nest invade?

Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn?

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to the unheeding gloom;
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,"
Grief allthy thought, and solitude thy home.
Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song:
Sing on, sad mourner to the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek,
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to pity's call?

has been pronounced by some of our best living po ets, an inimitable relique of some ancient minstrel ! Yet I have discovered it to be the actual production of Burns himself. The ballad of Auld lang syne was also introduced in this ambiguous manner, though there exist proofs that the two best stanzas of it are indisputably his; hence there are strong grounds for believing this poem also to be his production, notwithstanding the evidence to the contrary. It was found among his MSS. in his own hand writing, with occasional interlineations, such as occur in all his primitive effusions. It is worthy of his muse; but it is more in the style of Gray or Collins,

Should there, however, be a real author of the name of John M'Creddie, he will not be displeased at the publication of his poem, when he recollects that it had obtained the notice of Burns, and had undergone his correction.

E.

Ah no, sad owl! nor is thy voice less sweet, That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there; That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst

Nor that the treble songsters of the day
Are quite estranged, sad bird of night! from

thee;

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome,
While the gray walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods;

There hooting, I will list more pleas'd to thee,
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; .
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.

A

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD G.

What dost thou in that mansion fair?

Flit, G, and find

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,

The picture of thy mind!

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou, G

The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME.

Bright ran thy line, O, G

Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
So ended in a mire.

ON THE SAME.

On the author being threatened with his resentment.

Spare me thy vengeance, G
In quiet let me live:

I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.

A new ballad.

Tune-The Dragon of Wantley.

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Seot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw,
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,
Or, were more in fury seen, sir,

Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-
Who should be Faculty's Dean, sir.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,
Commandment tenth remember'd.
Yet simple Bob the vietory got,
And wan his heart's desire;

Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
Though the devil p-s in the fire.

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy,
For talents to deserve a place
Are qualifications saucy;
So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d' ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob's purblind mental vision:

Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet
Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear he has the angel met
That met the ass of Balaam.

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION.

Tune-Gillicrankie.

LORD A――TE.

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted,

Till in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint it;

He gaped for 't, he gaped for 't,

He fand it was awa, man;

But what his common sense come short,
He cked out wi' law, man.

Tint-lost.