Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale : Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent elaim :
And never may their sources fail !
And never envy blot their name!

IV.
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,

Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy!
Fair B-strikes th' adoring eye,

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine !

V.
There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar:
The ponderous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th' invader's shock.

VI.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears

I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Famed heroes, had their royal home :
Alas, how changed the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wandering roam!
Though rigid law eries out, 'twas just!

VII. Wild beats my heart, to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Through 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 faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! !

VIII. Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once, beneath a monarch's feet,

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! From inarking wildly-scatter'd flowers,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

SONG.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Tune-Roslin Castle.

I.
THE gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain ;

The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, press'd with care,
Along the lonely banks of AYR.

II.
The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter's ravage torn:
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III.
'Tis not the surging billows roar,
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear :
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of AYR.

IV. Farewel, old Coila's hills.and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched Fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewel, my friends ! farewel, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those The bursting tears any heart declare, Farewel, the bonnie banks of AYR!

THE FAREWEL,

TO THE BRETHREN. OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE,

TARBOLTON.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Tune-Good night, and joy be wi' you a'.

I.
ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu!

Dear brothers of the mystic tie !
Ye favor'd, ye enlighten'd few,

Companions of my social joy!
Though I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing fortune's sliddery(1) ba',(2)
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, though far awa'.(3)

II.
Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft, honor'd with supreme command,

Presided o'er the sons of light ; And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw!
Strong memory on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa'.

III.
May freedom, harmony, and love,

Unite you in the grand design,

(1) Slippery. (2) Ball. (3) Away,

Beneath th' omniscient eye above,

The glorious Architect divine ! That you may keep th' unerring line,

Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my prayer when far awa'.

IV. -
And you farewel! whose merits claim,

Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heaven bless your honor'd, noble name,

To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the bard that's far awa'.

IVRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,

ON NITH-SIDE.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.