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Scottish Literary Intelligence.

DR Cook, of Lawrence Kirk, who

wrote on the resurrection of Christ, has nearly ready for the press, a History of the Reformation, in two large quartos. From the indefatigable research and known talents of the author, much is expected: he has detected many errors and false quotations in Hume, the historian; and the literary world may look for a full and distinct account of that important event, with an exposition of the causes that led to the Reformation, &c.— Dr Cook is the son of the Professor of that name of St Andrews.

Sir John Sinclair has addressed, to a number of respectable farmers in different districts, a letter to the following purport:

Several of my most respectable friends in the agricultural line, and Sir Joseph Banks in particular, have strongly inculcated the idea, that it is a duty incumbent on a Scottish president of an English board, to draw up a treatise on the system of husbandry adopted in Scotland, by means of which, the farmers of that country are enabled, in extensive tracts, to pay double the rent for the land they cultivate, compared to land of a similar quality and description in England; and in his communication to me upon that subject, Sir Joseph adds, "that agriculture has derived, is deriving, and will derive more benefits from Scottish industry and skill, than has been accumulated since the days when Adam first wielded a spade.”

When thus called upon, in a manner so flattering to the agricultural skill and industry of my countrymen, it is impossible for me not to obey the summons; more especially as I am deeply impressed with the idea, that the introduction of the simple, economical, and judicious system of husbandry adopted in Scotland, would double the value of many districts in Eng. land, and would render the British

empire independent of other countries for food, and for a variety of other most essential articles.

I have to request, therefore, that you will have the goodness to favour me with your assistance in carrying on so useful an undertaking; and for that purpose, that you would be pleased to transmit to me, as speedily as the circumstances of the case will admit of it (the sooner the more desirable,) full answers to the subjoined queries. As soon as the treatise which I propose to draw up is printed, I shall have the pleasure of transmitting a copy of it to you, with many thanks for your friendly and public-spirited assistance in so important an inquiry.

The queries are as follow:

1. What may be the size of the farm you occupy, in Scotch or English acres?

2. What may be the nature and quality of the soil and sub-soil?

3. How near is the farm situated to any town or village; to any navigable river; or to the sea?

4. What may be the number of fields into which it is divided; or the average size of each ?

5. What the rotation of crops, and the average-produce of each crop?

6. What the number of farm ser

vants, married and unmarried; and the wages and other emoluments they receive?

7. What the average number of persons, occasionally employed, in other operations about the farm?

8. What the number of work-horses, and the expence of maintaining them?

9. What the number of other stock kept on the farm?

10. What the number of ploughs and carts; and whether any waggons are used on it?

11. Is there a threshing-mill; and is it wrought by horses, wind, or water?

Are there fanners; and how are they wrought?

12. What is the rent of the land per Scotch or English acre?

13. Is the farmer. liable to any additional burden, for land-tax, assessment for the poor, stipend to the minister, or salary to the schoolmaster; and to what amount?

14. What do you consider to be the best sizes for arable farms, in different districts, according to the capi

tals of which different farmers be may possessed; and why do you think such sizes preferable?

15. What sums, on an average, may it require, to stock such farms; and what may be the average expense of

the different articles ?

performed by Mr Robert Semple; in which he visited several important places, not noticed in his former work.-He is about to publish the Observations will be embellished by a variety of made on this second journey. The work plates, illustrative of the Costume and

Manners of the Inhabitants of several parts of the Peninsula.

Captain Henderson has in the press,

An Account of the British Settlement of Honduras; together with Sketches of the Manners and Customs of the Mosquito Indians.

The Rev. Mr Dibdin, has just completed the first volume, of his edition of Ames's and Herbert's Typographical Antiquities of Great Britain; and it will make its appearance in December.

Mr Surr's new novel, named the Romance of the Times, will appear about Christmas.

The Rev. W. Ward, of Diss, has in the Literary Intelligence, ENGLISH and press, the first volume of the Fulfilment

FOREIGN.

MR [R Lambert, who lately travelled through Lower Canada, and the United States, has begun to print an account of his Observations on the present State of those interesting Countries.

His work will make three volumes octavo, and will be illustrated with a variety of engravings, from drawings made on the spot.

Sir William Ousely has made considerable progress in a work, which consists of the Accounts of Alexander the Great, which are to be found in Eastern writers.

The general Collection of Voyages and Travels, in twenty-eight volumes, corresponding with the British Essayists, will be ready in a few days.

We are authorised to mention that the late Marquis of , wrote a series of Letters to his son on every topic of Education; and that the work will, without delay, be given to the world.

Some copies of the original 4to edition of Mr Barlow's fine poem of the Columbiad, have been imported from America, by Mr Raymond, of Pall Mall, and are to be had at Four Guineas in boards. The volume taken altogether is one of the most elegant that ever issued from

the press.

A second journey through the Southern part of Spain, has been recently

of the Revelation, or Prophetic History of the Declension and Restoration of the Christian Church.

A work which cannot fail to prove highly interesting to lovers of the fine arts, is in considerable forwardness. It will consist of thirty engraved portraits of some of the females most distinguished at the present day for beauty, rank, and fashion. It is intended to appear in five parts, and is to be entitled, Beauties of the Reign of George III. The portraits are painted by Mrs Mee, and will be engraved by artists of the first eminence. They will be accompanied with biographical accounts, forming together a most magnificent folio volume.

A Collection of Tales, selected and translated from the works of Wieland, Schiller, Meissner, and other celebrated German writers, in three volumes small octavo, will speedily make their appear

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Poetry.

VERSES Written in the year 1786, when the celebrated ROBERT BURNS had bid farewell to his native Country, and was about to emigrate to Jamaica,

"Full many a flow'r is born to blush un

seen,

"And waste its sweetness on the desert air." GRAY.

HAIL, sweetest bard! sae lately ken't,
Now formaist on the Thistley bent,
Thy artless notes ding a' in prent,

They gar ane glow'r;
In raptures wi' them aft I've spent,
A happy hour.

When Winter wi' his drouket pow
Howls whistlen o'er the witter'd knowe,
And roaren mak's the burn to rowe;
The frantic form

'Thou paints, my fancy soon taks lowe

And rides the storm.

When smiling Spring, wi' lilies crown'd,
Strews her white daisies thick around,
The woodlands ring, I catch the sound
From every tree;
From glen to glen I skip and bound,
And follow thee.

I follow thee, and fondly stray
Where rosy summer, blyth and gay,
Half naked 'mang the tedded hay,

In mirth and glee,
Dances and sports the hours away,
And sings wi' thee.

And when thou hails, at dewy morn,
The warbler on the spangled thorn,
The winding path and yellow corn,

On wand'ring Ayr,
Away, sweet bard, wi' thee I'm borne,
I know not where.

'Neath yon ag'd Elm at noon I ly,
Doon's bonnie waters wimplin' by,
There mark thy Muse unrivalled fly
By haunted streams,
Catching the glow that from the eye
Of beauty beams.

And when in sober mantle clad
Sweet Evening comes, celestial maid,
I trace thee to the lowly shed,

The peaceful cot,
Where Cherubs crown the Patriarch's head,
And bless the spot.

Or catch the strains thy fancy pours,
When fairy bands at moon-light hours
Frisk frae yon mould'ring roofless tow'rs
In gowns sae green,

To strew the cottar's path wi' flow'rs,
At Hallowe'en.

Or when Tam's drouth, sae ill to slocken,
His vera hindmost mite had brocken,
And on his beast, the beast sat rocken,
Through mirk and mire,
The clouds in fury 'round him bocken,
Hail, rain, and fire.

The tempest ragen through the wood,
And roaren in the rising flood,
Auld Cloots himsel' in merry mood
Whisken before him,

To right and left, fiends yellen loud
In triumph o'er him.

And Spunkie in the mosses blinken,
Spectres in dizens round him jinken,
And warlocks to their doxies winken,
The Coof to flee,
Safe's man thou'd scaur the hardiest thinken
What drinkers' dree.

Ye tuneful nine, frae moors and fells,
(For there sweet Poesy aft dwells,)
Gae fetch a wreath o' heather-bells,
And vi'lets blue;

Twine gowans in't, and row't in ells
'Round Robin's brow.

O! Fortune, smile and kiss him yet!
Down wi' his sails tho' they be set,
If worth can e'er thy favour get,
Or catch thine e'e,
Or tears can plead, thou'll never let
Burns owr'e the sea.
Poor Scotia on the barren wild
Sits weeping o'er her darling child,
Neglected, friendless, starv'd and toil'd,
'Gainst want nae shield,
Forc'd for to seek some climate mild,
Some warmer bield.
Adown the hawthorn blossom'd vale
The lily white, the primrose pale,
May waste their fragrance on the gale,
And drop unseen,

But ah! can suffering merit fail
To find a frien'.
Shall BURNS, immortal, matchless chiel',
Yon sunny heights nae langer speel,
Nor braes, whare he has pip'd sae leel,
And Orpheus-like,
Could charm a' nature round to feel
His music strike.

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The shipwreck'd boy benumb'd and wet,
Has oft again to life been het,
The slender bark's no aye owre-set
When ocean roars;

May his not find some harbour yet
On these bleak shores.

Ye Embro' lads *, sae deep in skill,
Ye hae the art his ail to kill,
Your kindness kirsten'd wi' a gill
Might gi'et the fling,

And yet gar ilka shaw, and hill,
Melodious ring.

It cannot sure attach to you,

To skreen his laurels frae the dew,
Shed then your beams around him now,
Your heat impart;

And foil the storm that would subdue,
An honest heart.

Haste wipe the tear frae Scotland's e'e,
O! keep her dautet bairn a wee,
Sic native worth out owr'e the sea
Maun ne'er be hurl'd,
Rin, hap your Poet coziely,

And brag the world.

E-v-le.

THE JUBILEE.

A New Song.

By G. SCOTT.

A Caledonian.

BRITONS! hail the auspicious day,
Sacred to our sov'reign's sway;
Heav'n-born loyalty display,

On this glorious Jubilee.
Queen of Isles, with proud applause,
Bless thy king, revere the laws;
Dauntless still, maintain thy cause,

Vengeance, death, or victory. Ours the country, ours the king, Warriors stern, and patriots keen, Freedom's standard still is seen

Streaming o'er our heads, to flee.

See Europa's blasted plains,
Hear her widows, hear her swains,
Wail their fate, and clank their chains,
Curse the load of slavery.

Heroes of the Northern Isle!
Crush the rude Usurper vile,
Cause th' insulted slave to smile,
Bless thy generosity.

Strike Napoleon's blood-stain'd throne,
Bid the patriot-spark be blown,
Think the Nation's wrongs thine own,

And they shall be-shall be free.
Conquering under George's reign,
Shall we grace a Tyrant's train?
Shall our battles be in vain ?

Soul of Nelson!-can it be?

The Scotch Nobility and Literati.

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O higher, still higher, rose the rude wave to heaven,

O louder the tempest did roar !-
Now many brave seamen unburied are dri-

ven,

And toss'd on thy coast, Labradore,
On thy storm-beaten coast, Labradore!,
The tempest to thunder and blow now
does cease,

And the rough-rolling ocean to roar;
Their souls are safe moor'd in that haven

of peace,

Where storms cannot fear any more, Nor thy cold frozen coast, Labradore! Glasgow.

THE CAPTIVE NEGRO.

R. G.

SWEET western breeze that gently waves, The branches of this mountain shade, Beyond yon crimson'd sea that laves My country's shore, thou'st haply stray'd. Rich, mingling with thy balmy breath, Methinks I feel my native air; "That thought will soothe the pangs of death, Which now my inmost vitals tear.

Full twenty springs have brought their
bloom,

And usher'd autumn's mellow glow,
Full twenty winters chilling gloom
Have autumn's sweetest flow'rs laid low.

Since last my native fields I view'd,
Since last a friendly voice I heard,
Since Afric's sands my tears bedew'd,
And bath'd the feet of Christians fear'd.

A lovely maiden blest my arms
In all the pride of blooming youth,
Her innocence and artless charms
Were grac'd by modest love and truth.
Scarce fifteen moons their silv'ry beams
On lonely vale or grove had shed,
Had sparkl'd in the rippling streams,
Or foam from mountain torrents bred.
When on our coast a Christian band,
To hunt their fellow creatures flew ;
They seiz'd me, while with ruthless hand
My babe before my eyes they slew.

And as it writh'd and scream'd in pain,
Uplifted on the bloody spear,
They laugh'd, then coolly crush'd its brain,

And mock'd the frantic parent's tear.
Each setting sun my tears flow fast,
Each morning brings no joy for me,
My days in toil and stripes are pass'd,
My nights in pain and misery.

The fiery west that gilds yon spires,
May tinge with flame some kindred eye,
Perhaps my noble aged sire's,
Who heaves for me the bursting sigh.

How canst thou, Christian, mercy crave, From that great Pow'r thou call'st thy God?

Who crush the Negro to the grave,
With stern Oppression's iron rod.
Thou rack'st the Negro's soul with pangs
Far sharper than his body feels.
When venom from the serpent's fangs
Shoots through his veins and life soon steals.
The serpent's wound is bliss to thine,
Its victim's pains and woes soon end,
Thy wound brings ling'ring torture fine,
'Tis thine to sever friend from friend.

'Tis almost o'er, of life the dream;
Too much to bear has almost ceas'd;
My tears and blood no more shall stream,
The captive now shall be releas'd.

M. R. E.

TO THE SHADE OF OSSIAN.
THOU of Morven's race renown'd,
O Hero Bard! whose harp has rung
Symphonious to thy tuneful tongue,
That by the magic of its sound
Charmed the cloud-born ghosts around,
Who with bold hand the deep toned
strings,

Struck as thou sung'st the strife of kings;
While Scotia's sons, thy strains to hear,
Hung round thee leaning on the spear,
Saw in thy energetic strain,
The fight wherein themselves had fought,
Their minds by strong
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wrought,

A triumph knew again. While rose in song the battle plain, Where Fingal, like an angry god, Resistless in his terrors strode, And strew'd the field with hostile slain : Or lower'd thy lofty tone and sung "The heaving breasts of love:" Then o'er the chords thy fingers hung, Fearing each harsher sound to move. As rose the measure plaintive, slow, And seemed to know the tale of woe The tragic lay each soul ingrost, And in soft sympathy was lost,

Then struggled from each manly breast,
The warrior's pride so high before.
The sigh too full to be supprest,

Each face a gaze of sorrow wore.
And oft was turned aside the head,
In private, Pity's tear to shed,

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