Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

To misery's brink,

Till wrench'd of every stay but Heav'n

He ruin'd sink!

The following lines afford another illustration of the admirable power with which Burns could turn a trifling subject to the highest uses of poetry.

TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH
A PLOUGH.

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic 's in thy breastie !
Thou needna' start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee

Wi' murdering pettle!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell an' keen.

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,

Sleekit, sleck; brattle, hurry; wad, would; laith, loth; rin, run; pettle, plough-staff; wa's, walls; win's, winds; bg, build; baith, both; snell, bitter.

BURNS.

An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

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

To thole the winter's sleety dribble

An' cranreuch cauld!

I guess an' fear.

The following verses, adapted to one of the best of Scotland's national airs, presents a delightful picture of rustic life, the aged wife, feeding her still fond affections upon the sweet memories of the past, and deriving cheerfulness, in the frosts of age, from reflec tions upon the unity of the lot which attends herself

and her husband.

Cozie, sung; mony, many; but, without; hald, abiding place; thole, suffer; dribble, drizzle; cranreuch, hoar frost; lane, alone; aft, often; a-gley, wrong.

JOHN ANDERSON.

My Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

We might easily multiply quotations, full of beauty and pathos, and there is scarcely any kind of poetry of which we could not furnish admirable specimens. The songs of Burns, however, as they are the most numerous, so they are the best of his varied productions. They are not entirely free from moral defects, but they are less exceptionable than his other works, many of which are disfigured by touches of impurity and grossness. His variety is as remarkable as his excellence. If any one desires humor, he can find it in abundance-for Burns has more of it than any modern poet. If he seeks tenderness, he meets with it on every page; if he loves pathos, he cannot

Brent, smooth; pow, head; thegither, together; canty, cheerful; ane, one; anither, another; maun, must.

BURNS.

read far without finding the tears gathering in his eyes. If he wish them all together, he will find them woven as naturally into one song, as the diversified colors and forms of the blooming meadow, into one landscape.

We may remark that while Burns is one of the greatest of poets, so he is among those who are most extensively read. The leading quality of his poems is their truth, their sincerity. He has no fabulous or fantastic joys or woes all that he expresses is real. The passion that he has traced, we must feel, from our own sympathies, has glowed in a human bosom. He does not write from hearsay, but from experience. Though his scenes and subjects are humble, they kindle lofty emotions in the soul. Though his dialect is but a rustic jingle, yet it is poured forth with such melody, as to captivate the heart. Here, then, we see the secret of his greatness, as well as his popularity: it is his truth, his simplicity, his harmony.

We cannot close without saying a word of Burns's family. No sooner was he dead, and beyond the reach of the world's scorn or pity,-than, as usual, there was a general burst of sympathy. Happily, this was directed to the benefit of his family. His widow was made comfortable for life, and died, within a few years, at a great age, respected by all who knew her. His sons were provided for, and some are still living, in reputable stations of life. Gilbert, his brother, died recently, having established his family successfully in the world. written by able hands—but the best of these memoirs The life of the poet has been is that of Allen Cunningham, which has been re

cently issued, with a full collection of his poems. An admirable review of the works of Burns appeared about ten years since, from the pen of Thomas Carlyle. To these two works we are largely indebted, in the compilation of this sketch of the best of Scottish poets.