long the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,[109A]
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.[109B]

Had I a statue been o' stane,
His darin' look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posy--'Libertie!'

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But, oh! it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton's ear.

He sang wi' joy the former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,--
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

[Footnote 109A: VARIATIONS.

To join yon river on the Strath.]

[Footnote 109B: VARIATIONS.

Now looking over firth and fauld,
Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd;
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,
A storm and stalwart ghaist appear'd.]

* * * * *

CXXX.

TO

JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY,

ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

[John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are
addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared little
about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound and
clear--a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns
of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which
was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much
kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness
when giving a refusal. He loved to meet Burns: not that he either
cared for or comprehended poetry; but he was pleased with his
knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and piercing remarks in
which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old when these verses were
written, and survived the poet twenty years.]

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief!
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf
This natal morn;
I see thy life is stuff