The charming Burns, the Muse’s care, Of all her sons the pride; This pleasure oft I’ve sought to share, But been as oft deni’d. Oft have my thoughts, at midnight hour, To him excursions made; This bliss in dreams was premature, And with my slumbers fled. ’Tis real now, no vision here Bequeaths a poignant dart; I’ll view the poet ever dear, Whose lays have charm’d my heart. Hark! now he comes, a dire alarm Re-echoes through his hall! Pegasus[2] kneel’d, his rider’s arm Was broken by a fall. The doleful tidings to my ears Were in harsh notes convey’d; His lovely wife stood drown’d in tears, While thus I pond’ring said: “No cheering draught, with ills unmix’d, Can mortals taste below; All human fate by heav’n is fix’d, Alternate joy and wo.” With beating breast I view’d the bard; All trembling did him greet: With sighs bewail’d his fate so hard, Whose notes were ever sweet. [2] The name of the Poet’s horse. GIVEN TO A LADY WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE _A POEM_. In royal Anna’s golden days, Hard was the task to gain the bays: Hard was it then the hill to climb; Some broke a neck, some lost a limb. The vot’ries for poetic fame, Got aff decrepit, blind, an’ lame: Except that little fellow Pope, Few ever then got near its top: An’ Homer’s crutches he may thank, Or down the brae he’d got a clank. Swift, Thomson, Addison, an’ Young Made Pindus echo to their tongue, In hopes to please a learned age; But Doctor Johnston, in a rage, Unto posterity did shew Their blunders great, their beauties few. But now he’s dead, we weel may ken; For ilka dunce maun hae a pen, To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes; An’ yet forsooth they please the times. A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name, Pretends to write; an’ thinks nae shame To souse his sonnets on the court; An’ what is strange, they praise him for’t. Even folks, wha’re of the highest station, Ca’ him the glory of our nation. But what is more surprising still, A milkmaid must tak up her quill; An’ she will write, shame fa’ the rabble! That think to please wi’ ilka bawble. They may thank heav’n, auld Sam’s asleep; For could he ance but get a peep, He, wi’ a vengeance wad them sen’ A’ headlong to the dunces’ den. Yet Burns, I’m tauld, can write wi’ ease, An’ a’ denominations please; Can wi’ uncommon glee impart A usefu’ lesson to the heart; Can ilka latent thought expose, An’ Nature trace whare’er she goes: Of politics can talk wi’ skill, Nor dare the critics blame his quill. But then a rustic country quean To write--was e’er the like o’t seen? A milk maid poem-books to print; Mair fit she wad her dairy tent; Or labour at her spinning wheel, An’ do her wark baith swift an’ weel. Frae that she may some profit share, But winna frae her rhyming ware. Does she, poor silly thing, pretend The manners of our age to mend? Mad as we are, we’re wise enough Still to despise sic paultry stuff.