ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

[This universally admired piece could not fail to assist in giving the poet's name a lift in the Scottish capital. He has omitted to notice none of the specialities of which Edinburgh is so justly proud, not even its charitable institutions being passed over without a compliment. He enclosed this poem along with another piece unnamed, to Mr. William Chalmers, writer, Ayr, so early as 27th Dec., 1786, thus showing the rapidity with which he had composed it; for he had then been only three weeks in the city. He says, "I enclose you two poems, which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, 'Fair B,' is heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence.' This beautiful creature died in 1789. We will afterwards refer to her in connection with an Elegy which Burns composed on the occasion.]

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once beneath a Monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labours plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendor rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy Sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the Stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale:
Attentive still to Sorrow's wail,

Or modest Merit's silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!
Thy Daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!

Fair B

- strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude Fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold Vet'ran, gray in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing War,
And oft repell'd th' Invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately Dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal Name low in the dust!
Their hapless Race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid Law cries out, 'twas just!

Wild-beats my heart, to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my Sires have left their shed,
And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your Fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

SONGS.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.*

A BALLAD.

[It is curious that the poet never corrected the defective grammar in the first line of this ballad: his posthumous editors, however, have almost universally done this for him. There can be no doubt that Burns liked the antique euphony of was in this line, otherwise he must have changed it in the course of his various revisals. Sometimes bad grammar is a positive beauty: Shakespeare indulged in it; and the Ettrick Shepherd declared that his favourite song, "Meet a bonie lassie when the kye comes hame," was murdered on one occasion by an attempt to correct the grammar in singing it.

The ancient ballad on which this is founded is printed in Robert Jamieson's Ballads (1806,) taken from a black-letter copy in the Pepys' Library.]

THERE was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the chearful Spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd them all.

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.

*This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name. ---(R. B. 1787.)

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.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; Then ty'd 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 farther 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 us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if ye do but taste his blood,
"Twill make your courage rise.

"Twill make a man forget his woe;
"Twill heighten all his joy:

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' 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.

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE-Gillicrankie.

[This is a rustic ballad, on the American War of Independence, which the poet might well have omitted from his printed works, for the only notice it elicited was from Dr. Hugh Blair, who remarked that, "the ploughman bard's politics smell of the smithy."]

WHEN Guilford good our Pilot stood,
An' did our hellim thraw, man,

Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
And in the sea did jaw, man;
An' did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.