No thought of guilt my bosom sours;
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers

That lust and pride,

The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.

I saw mankind with vice encrusted;
I saw that honour's sword was rusted;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceiv'd who trusted
To love or friend;

And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,

I wear away

My life, and in my office holy

Consume the day.

This rock my shield; when storms are blowing, The limpid streamlet yonder flowing

Supplying drink, the earth bestowing

My simple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in

This desert wood.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace and with thoughts still soaring

Stranger, if full of youth and riot,
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The hermit's prayer-

But if thou hast good cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care;

If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

And makes thee pine,

Oh! how must thou lament thy station,

And envy mine!

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT.

[When Burns wrote those touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch-Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why

At

my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?-
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave:
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,

Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,

Marking you his prey below,

In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :

But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend

Or, if man's superior might,

Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;

Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

VERSES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE

INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

[The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic cenery.]

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious I pursue,
'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,

The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides;

Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;

The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,

Find balm to soothe her bitter-rankling wounds:

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it, the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall further up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deer gulf where nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and agitated mist.]

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep-recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, lowr's.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,

And still below, the horrid cauldron boils

*

*

*

POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. W. TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.

[When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations: an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the Poem has been completed from the original in the poet's handwriting.]

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was once mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne,
My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen and the rest of the gentry,

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us th' Electoral stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.