osed this Poem, in the hope
that it might interest the powerful family of Dundas in his fortunes.
I found it inserted in the handwriting of the poet, in an interleaved
copy of his Poems, which he presented to Dr. Geddes, accompanied by
the following surly note:--"The foregoing Poem has some tolerable
lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to
correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it with my best prose
letter to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the
hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood,
surgeon: when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my
Poem, or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler who had made free
with his lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine
that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the
elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these
lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was
confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the
wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in
1834.]

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from this cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
Whi