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THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS
LXIX. ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH

[“I enclose you two poems,” said Burns to his friend Chalmers, “which I have carded and spun since I passed Glenbuck. One blank in the Address to Edinburgh, ‘Fair B–,’ is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly like her, in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great Creator has formed, since Milton’s Eve, on the first day of her existence.” Lord Monboddo made himself ridiculous by his speculations on human nature, and acceptable by his kindly manners and suppers in the manner of the ancients, where his viands were spread under ambrosial lights, and his Falernian was wreathed with flowers. At these suppers Burns sometimes made his appearance. The “Address” was first printed in the Edinburgh edition: the poet’s hopes were then high, and his compliments, both to town and people, were elegant and happy.]

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,

Where once beneath a monarch’s feet

Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs!

From marking wildly-scatter’d flow’rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,

And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour’d shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy Trade his labour plies;

There Architecture’s noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise;

Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;

There Learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks Science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail;

Their views enlarg’d, their liberal mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale;

Attentive still to sorrow’s wail,

Or modest merit’s silent claim;

And never may their sources fail!

And never envy blot their name!

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,

Gay as the gilded summer sky,

Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptur’d thrill of joy!

Fair Burnet strikes th’ adoring eye,

Heav’n’s beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar,

Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms,

And mark’d with many a seamy scar:

The pond’rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o’er the rugged rock,

Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell’d th’ invader’s shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome,

Where Scotia’s kings of other years,

Fam’d heroes! had their royal home:

Alas, how chang’d the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!

Their hapless race wild-wand’ring roam,

Tho’ rigid law cries out, ’twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore,

Thro’ hostile ranks and ruin’d gaps

Old Scotia’s bloody lion bore:

Ev’n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed,

And fac’d grim danger’s loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led!

VIII.