The following exquisito lyrio, deplctinff Burns' affcction for Jessie Lewars in his last illness has recently beenfound in Kilmarnoek. It is anonymous, but is belleved by competent critica to have been written by Motherwlll, who cherlshed an almost idolatrous admiration for the great Scottish bard : The sun lies clasped in amber clouds, Half-Midden in the sea ; And o'r the sands 'he flowing tide Come6 racing merrily. The hawthorn hedge Is white with bloom, The wind is soft and down, And sad and still you watch by me, Tour hand clasped in my own. Oh ! let the curtain bide, Jesaie, And raise my head awee, And let the bonnie setting sun Glint in on you and me. The world looks fair and bright, Jessie, Near lovinchearts like you; But puirtith's blasts sifts summer love, And makes real friendships few. Oh ! Jessie, in the dreary nie;ht, I clasp my burning hands Upon those throbbiug slecpless lids O'er eyes like glowing brande. And wouder, in mv weary braiu, If, haply, wbeu l'm dead My old b'Xm friends for love of me Will give my bairnies bread. Oh ! did the poor not help the poor, Each in their simple way, With humble gift, and kiudly word, God pity them I say ; For mauy a man who elasped my hand, With pledges o'er 'he bowl, When the wine halo paseed away. Proved but a niggard 6oul. Ob ! blessed thought midst our despair, There is a promise made, That in the ifaj the rough wind blows, The east wind shall be stayed. A few short yuars, and tuosc I love Will eome again to me, In that bright realm without a sun, That land without a sea. Oh ! wilt thou gang o' nichts, Jessie, To my forsaken nearth, And be as thou hast been to me, The truest friend on carth? Sae swcetly in your linnet voice, You'll sing my weans to rest, While Jean will lay her weary head Upon your loving breast. Oh 1 what is faine : lts wrath of rays Cools not the fevered brow, Wilt teil hi6 name in coming days, Who H-histktl at the plough, And wrote a simple song or cwo, For happier hearts to sinff, Among the shining shenves of corn, Or round the household ring. Yet would 1 prize the bubble fame, If but mine artless lays Bore thy sweet deed and lovingness For future time to praise. True souls 1 I bless the poet's sklll, Which won a friend like thee, Whose tender love 'twix Home and Heaven Is with cnstantlv.