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“O! synge untoe my roundelaie

O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee..

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Black hys cryne as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Swote hys tongue as the throstles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte his taboure, codgelle stote,
O! hee lys bie the wyllowe-tree.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Hark! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe;
Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
To the nyghte-mares as theie goe.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Ne one hallie seyncte to save
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love ys deddee,
Gonne to his deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

R

Wythe mie hondes in dent the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairies, lygbte your fyres,
Heere my boddie stille schalle bee.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe-tree.

Come wy he acorne-coppe and thome,
Drayne my hartys blodde awnie;
Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne.
Daunce bie nete, or fenste by dair.

Mie love ys dedde,
Gonne to his deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree

Water wytches crownede wythe rrytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle i de
I die; I comine; me true love waytes
Thus the damneile at the, and dyed

To proceed to the more immediate sushi, of the present la ture, the characirr and writings of Burns --Shaks; are my some one, that she was like a man made at: r surser pa chiqueparing" Burns, the poet, was not such a man a strong mind, and a to!! houts, the follow it. He h a ral heart of flesh and ble bearing in his lwam- can II. at hear it throb some one said, that if you had hairs hands with hun, his hand would have burnt yours There 11. leed, "mule hun purrethral " but nature had a hand in Dunn first His heart was in the nht plar lira trabra soul under the rits of death," by tinkling stren sands, or ty paling up cintiof portio dicta; but for the arthrual flowers poetry, he plucked the muntain-daisy under hu fret, and a field-1usr, hurrying fruin its ruired dwelling, cold insure him with the statiments of fruit and pity He bold the piece or the pan with the same tirm, manly grasp nor dd be est 10 pery as we cut out warlpapers with fintal dexteny Be fri m the sanır Lilly poule Borne we not like bal

atr in the range h 1 .4lyttfirm is genething of the same magnan::::"y, date mass, and wailiin chararter ades kun Ho was not a sickly spumentalunt, a naruby-pamby por

a mincing metre ballad-monger, any more than Shakspeare. He would as soon hear "a brazen candlestick tuned, or a dry wheel grate on the axletree.” He was as much of a man-not a twentieth part as much of a poet-as Shakspeare. With but little of his imagination or inventive power, he had the same life 'of mind: within the narrow circle of personal feeling or domestic incidents, the pulse of his poetry flows as healthily and vigorously. He had an eye to see; a heart to feel :—no more. His pictures of good fellowship, of social glee, of quaint humour, are equal to anything; they come up to nature, and they cannot go beyond. The sly jest collected in his laughing eye at the sight of the grotesque and ludicrous in manners--the large tear rolled down his manly cheek at the sight of another's distress. He has made us as well acquainted with himself as it is possible to be; has let out the honest impulses of his native disposition, the unequal conflict of the passions in his breast, with the same frankness and truth of description. His strength is not greater than his weakness: his virtues were greater than his vices. His virtues belonged to his genius: his vices to his situation, which did not correspond to his genius.

It has been usual to attack Burns's moral character, and the moral tendency of his writings at the same time; and Mr. Wordsworth, in a letter to Mr. Gray, Master of the High School at Edinburgh, in attempting to defend, has only laid him open to a more serious and unheard-of responsibility. · Mr. Gray might very well have sent him back, in return for his epistle, the answer of Holofernes in Love's Labour Lost:-" Via goodman Dull, thou hast spoken no word all this while.” The author of this performance, which is as weak in effect as it is pompous in pretension, shows a great dislike of Robespierre, Buonaparte, and of Mr. Jeffrey, whom he, by some unaccountable fatality, classes together as the three most formidable enemies of the human race that have appeared in his (Mr. Wordsworth's) remembrance; but he betrays very little liking to Burns. He is, indeed, anxious to get him out of the unhallowed clutches of the Edinburgh Reviewers (as a mere matter of poetical privilege,) only to bring him before a graver and higher tribunal, which is his own; and, after repeating and insinuating ponderous

charges against him, shakes his head, and declines giving any
opinion in so tremendous a cass; so that, though the judgment
of the former critic is set aside, poor Burns remains just where
he was, and nobody gains anything by the cause but Mr. Words
worth, in an increasing opinion of his own wisdom and party
"Out upon this half-faced fellowship!" The author of the Lyrical
Ballads has thus missed a fine opportunity of doing Burns jos
tice and himself honour. He might have shown himself a philo
sophical prose-writer, as well as a philosophical poet. He might
have offered as amiable and as gallant a defence of the Mays
as my uncle Toby, in the honest simplicity of his heart, di
the army. He might have said at once, instead of making a
parcel of wry faces over the matter, that Bums had written Tum
Om Shanter, and that that alone was enough; that he could hand
ly have described the excesses of mad, hairbrained, ronde
mirth, and convivial indulgence, which are the soul of Robe
himself had not " drunk full ofter of the tun than of the well
unless the act and practique part of life had been the mistrere
of his theorique." Mr. Wordsworth might have quoted such
lines as

"The landlady and Tem grew gracious
Wr' favours, secret, sweet, and precious

*Care, mad to see a man so happy,
Een drowned himself amang the nappy.

and fairly confessed that he could not have writtra sorh lines from a want of proper habits and previous sympathy and that, till some great puritanical genius should arise to do these things equally well without any knowledge of them, the world tight forgive Burns the injuries he had done his health and fortabe his poetical apprenticeship to experience, for the pleasure he had aflurded them. Instead of this, Mr. Wordsworth hinda dhe with different personal habits and greater strength of mind Burns would have written differently, and almost as well as the dors. He might have taken that line of Cay's

*The ty that wipe tresele is out in the sweets,

and applied it in all its force and pathos to the poetical character. He might have argued that poets are men of genius, and that a man of genius is not a machine; that they live in a state of intellectual intoxication, and that it is too much to expect them to be distinguished by peculiar sang froid, circumspection, and sobriety. Poets are by nature men of stronger imagination and keener sensibilities than others; and it is a contradiction to suppose them at the same time governed only by the cool, dry, calculating dictates of reason and foresight. Mr. Wordsworth might have ascertained the boundaries that part the provinces of reason and imagination :that it is the business of the understanding to exhibit things in their relative proportions and ultimate consequences of the imagination to insist on their immediate impressions, and to indulge their strongest impulses; but it is the poet's office to pamper the imagination of his readers and his own with the extremes of present ecstasy or agony, to snatch the swift-winged golden minutes, the torturing hour, and to banish the dull, prosaic, monotonous realities of life, both from his thoughts and from his practice. Mr. Wordsworth might have shown how it is that all men of genius, or of originality and independence of mind, are liable to practical errors, from the very confidence their superiority inspires, which makes them fly in the face of custom and prejudice, always rashly, sometimes un, justly; for, after all, custom and prejudice are not without foundation in truth and reason, and no one individual is a match for the world in power, very few in knowledge. The world may altogether be set down as older and wiser than any single person in it.

Again, our philosophical letter-writer might have enlarged on the temptations to which Burns was exposed from his struggles with fortune and the uncertainty of his fate. He might have shown how a poet, not born to wealth or title, was kept in a constant state of feverish anxiety with respect to his fame and the means of a precarious livelihood: that," from being chilled with poverty, steeped in contempt, he had passed into the sunshine of fortune, and was lifted to the very pinnacle of public favour;" yet even there could not count on the continuance of success, but was, “like the giddy sailor on the mast, ready with

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