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.

      Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
      In the briered dell belowe;
      Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge,
      To the nygthe-mares as theie goe. 
          Mie love ys dedde,
          Gone 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 dedde,
          Gonne to his deathe-bedde,
          Al under the wyllowe-tree.

      Wythe mie hondes I’ll dent the brieres
      Rounde hys hallie corse to gre,
      Ouphante fairies, lyghte your fyres,
      Heere mie boddie stille schalle bee. 
          Mie love ys dedde,
          Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
          Al under the wyllowe-tree.

      Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
      Drayne my hartys blodde awaie;
      Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne,
      Daunce bie nete, or feaste by daie. 
          Mie love ys dedde,
          Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
          Al under the wyllowe-tree.

      Water wytches, crownede whthe reytes,
      Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde. 
      I die; I comme; mie true love waytes. 
      Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.”

To proceed to the more immediate subject of the present Lecture, the character and writings of Burns.—­Shakspeare says of some one, that “he was like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring.”  Burns, the poet, was not such a man.  He had a strong mind, and a strong body, the fellow to it.  He had a real heart of flesh and blood beating in his bosom—­ you can almost hear it throb.  Some one said, that if you had shaken hands with him, his hand would have burnt yours.  The Gods, indeed, “made him poetical”; but nature had a hand in him first.  His heart was in the right place.  He did not “create a soul under the ribs of death,” by tinkling siren