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Fierce the whirling blast may blow,
Drifting wide the crispy snow

;
Rude the ruthless storm may sweep,
Howling round our mountains steep,
While the heavy lashing rains,
Swell our rivers, drench our plains,
And the angry ocean roars
Round our broken, craggy shores,
But mindful of our poet's worth,
We hail the honour'd day that gave him Birth.

Come, ye Vot'ries of the Lyre,
Trim the torch of heav'nly fire,
Raise the song in Scotia's praise,
Sing anew her bonnie braes,

mark of satisfaction and applause. It appeared in the Scots Magazine the next month ; but by some unaccountable neglect it was omitted in the edition of his works, published after his lamented death-We certainly think it no way inferior to his other productions on the same subject, and flatter ourselves that the majority of our readers will be of the same opinion. Indeed it affords a striking proof of the rich stores of his mind, when he could thus continue a subject he had so completely exhausted on former oc. casions. We are inforned by a particular friend of his, that on being strongly solicited to write an Ode for the occasion, it was with considerable reluctance he complied with their request, affirming, that it was tasking himself something like the Poet Laureat to write an annual Birth Day Ode, and that he had nothing whatever to say on the subject; he was prevailed on, however, to make the attempt, and the present ode we are persuaded will not sully his fame, or tarnish one leaf of the IVY CHAPLET that adorns his honoured brow!

Since we have introduced our Bard to the notice of our readers, we beg leave to state that it was not our original intention to publish any of Tan. nahill's compositions, which are inserted in the Glasgow Encyclopedia

Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams;
Sing her sons beyond compare,
Sing her dochters peerless fair ;
Sing, till winter's storms be o'er,
The matchless Bards that sung before,
And I, the meanest of the muse's train,
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain.

Dear Scotia, tho' thy clime be cauld, Thy sons were ever brave and bauld, Thy dochters modest, kind, and leal, The fairest in creation's fiel'; Alike inur'd to every toil, Thou’rt foremost in the battle broil, Prepar'd alike in peace and weir, To guide the plough or wield the spear ; As the mountain torrent raves, Dashing thro' its rugged caves, So the Scottish Legions pour, Dreadful in th' avenging hour : But when Peace, with kind accord, Bids them sheath the sated sword,

of Songs; but as the present publication will be embellished with his portrait, it would le ridiculous not to insert a few of his pieces. We, therefore, intend to publish what we consider the happiest of his lyrical effusions, accompanied with short notices regarding them, exto acted from original documents in the possession of some of his most intimate acquaintances, which, we are happy to state, through their kindness we shall be enabled to furnish; this will afford his admirers some idea of the manner and style of his Epistolary Writings, and which, we trust, will not be alto. gether unacceptable.

See them in their native vales,
Jocund as the summer gales,
Cheering labour all the day,
With some merry roundelay.

Dear Scotia, tho' thy nights be drear,
When surly Winter rules the year,
Around thy cottage hearths are seen,
The glow of health, the cheerful mien;
The mutual glance that fondly shares,
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares,
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet,
The canty lads and lassies meet,
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free,
The hours of joy come dancing on,
To share their frolic and their fun.
Here many a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound,
Perform’d in dreary wizzard glen,
By runkled hags and warlock men;
Or of the hell-fee'd crew combin'd
Carousing on the midnight wind,
On some infernal errand bent,
While darkness shrouds their black intent.
But chiefly, Burns, thy songs delight,
To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments fee,
Without a care unless for thee,

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Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon,
And sought thy native sphere aboon.
Thy Lovely Jeun, 66 Nannie 0,"
Thy much-lov’dCaledonia,
Thy ye wha's in yonder town,

ThyBanks and braes obonnie doon”;
Thy Shepherdess on Afton braes,"
Thy " Logan lassie's bitter waes,
Are a' gane o'er sae sweetly tun’d,
That e’en the storm, pleased with the sounde
Fa’s lown and sings with eerie slight,
O let me in this ae, ae night.

Alas! our best, our dearest Bard, How poor, how great was his reward! Unaided he has fixt his name, Immortal in the rolls of fame ;

Yet who can hear without a tear,

What sorrows wrung his manly breast, To see his little helpless, filial band, Imploring succour from a father's hand

And there no succour near ? Himself the while with sick’ning woes oppresta

Fast hast’ning on to where the weary rest : For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone, She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.

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Poor soul, to see her hang her head

All day beneath the cypress tree;
And still she sings, “ My love be dead,"
The husbsnd of poor Ulalee.

Poor negro woman, Ulalee!

My love be kill'd! how sweet he smild!

His smile again me never see:
Unless me see it in the child,
That he have left poor Ulalee.
Poor negro woman,

Ulalee!

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