And thus it is-from year to year,

No matter how adverse my star be,
I have an offset ever dear

In memories sweet of Creag-a-ghàrie.

March 1st, 1876.

TO PROFESSOR GE ON HIS LAST HISTORICAL DISCOVERY.

(The gentleman here addressed having, in a speech made at a certain public meeting, ventured to assert that "Scotsmen must admit their country to have been once conquered," the author, who was present, felt himself impelled to deny the truth of his assumption. Hence the following lines, written off-hand, and received by the professor next morning at his breakfast-table.)

SCOTLAND, a conquered land! Learned sage,
Pray tell us how, and in what age?

Not so I read historic page.

Thou canst not deem a mere invasion-
A brief disputed occupation—

To be the conquest of a nation? •

Think'st thou the homage of a knave
Binding on those he would enslave?
Let Baliol answer from his grave!

Scotland a conquered land! Ho, ho!
Proud Edward found it was not so
When dying-vainly still her foe.

No pandering, then, to Saxon pride,—
Pretensions by our sires defied

Shall we not also cast aside ?

Forget'st thou Caron's crimsoned stream?
Is Bannockburn, a myth or dream?
And Wallace a mere minstrel theme?

Thou speak'st of Cromwell? Be it so:
Cromwell was never Scotland's foe-
How then her conqueror, let us know?

Her friend and Freedom's, north he came
Her noblest sons backed well his aim,
And scotched misrule in Cromwell's name.

Hold up thy head then, Scotia! When
Thy sons forget that they are men,
Thou may'st be conquered—not till then!

1857.

ROBERT BURNS.

(Written for the Centennial Celebration of 1859.) AIR-"Whistle oer the lave o't."

So many minstrels known to fame.

Have made sweet Coila's bard their theme,
That like an oft-told tale may seem
All I can sing of Robin.

Yet be his cairn however high,
No Scot can heedless pass it by;
The tribute of a song and sigh

Let's therefore give to Robin.

His was the true poetic art,

To sing directly from the heart :
To waken mirth, or tears to start,
No mortal matches Robin!

Now gently flow his thoughts along,
Now, like a rushing river strong,
A very cataract of song

Resistless is our Robin!

The sun not aye unclouded shines;
There's dross within earth's richest mines;-
Rob had his faults, and grave divines

Oft shook their heads at Robin.

He often, in a fashion rare,

On hypocrites his wit did air;

The graceless bard loved " mountain dew;

It was his Helicon, I trow;

He dearly loved the lasses" too,
A mighty crime in Robin!

A lassie "coming through the rye,"
Unkiss'd he never could pass by;
Nor can I blame him much, for why,
The lasses all loved Robin.

Rob loved to speak the truth right down,
No matter who might smile or frown;
A rascal, be he king or clown,

No mercy had from Robin.

His sympathies-how dread to tell!
Embraced all being-Nick himsel',-
Yes, pity for the very de'il

No sin or shame thought Robin.

I see him with scorn-flashing eyes
Detect "a cuif" in lordly guise;
To see was to denounce-despise :

"A man's a man," quoth Robin!
Hold, honest Labour, up thy head,
And point with pride to Robin dead;
The halo round thy path he shed
Immortal is as Robin.

Well may old Scotia mourn in vain
Her son from her untimely ta'en;
She'll never see his like again,

So matchless was our Robin.

Hush, ye who think his fate was hard,I'd rather be that peasant bard

Than any monarch crown'd and starr'd: Oh, who would not be Robin!

ANNIVERSARY VERSES,

(Written by special request, for the Burns Society of the City of De Moines, January, 1860.)

AGAIN comes round that happy day
More welcome than thy brightest, May,―
A day that Scotia will for aye

Hold sacred to her Robin.

Let winds without blow e'er so chill,
That Scottish heart is colder still
That beats not with a joyful thrill,
This day, to think of Robin.

The sovereign lord of song confess'd,
He lives enthroned in every breast,
Where well I ween that dispossess'd
Shall never be our Robin.

O never was with laurels crown'd
A bard more worthily renown'd;
All Scotland is made classic ground
By thee, immortal Robin !

As freely as yon sun forth flings
Incessant light in dazzling rings,
So rare and rich imaginings

Around him flung our Robin.
The truest censor of his age-
He in the bard ne'er sank the sage;
No mortal man could better gauge

The human heart than Robin.