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The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Among them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;
Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core-
Willie's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, such a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin,
By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin,
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum— Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,

While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,

Willie's awa!

May I be Slander's common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH,
Tho' far awa!

May never wicked Fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem
He canty claw!

Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!

NOTE TO MR. RENTON OF LAMERTON

YOUR billet, Sir, I grant receipt;

Wi' you

I'll canter ony gate,

Tho' 'twere a trip to yon blue warl',
Whare birkies march on burning marl:
Then, Sir, God willing, I'll attend ye,
And to his goodness I commend ye.

ELEGY ON "STELLA"

R. BURNS.

The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of "The voice of Cona" in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.-R. B.

STRAIT is the spot and green the sod
From whence my sorrows flow;

And soundly sleeps the ever dear
Inhabitant below.

Pardon my transport, gentle shade,
While o'er the turf I bow;

Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd,
And solitary now.

Not one poor stone to tell thy name,
Or make thy virtues known:
But what avails to me to thee,
The sculpture of a stone?

I'll sit me down upon this turf,
And wipe the rising tear:
The chill blast passes swiftly by,
And flits around thy bier.

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead,
And sad their house of rest:

Low lies the head, by Death's cold arms
In awful fold embrac'd.

I saw the grim Avenger stand
Incessant by thy side;

Unseen by thee, his deadly breath
Thy lingering frame destroy'd.

Pale

grew the roses on thy cheek, And wither'd was thy bloom,

Till the slow poison brought thy youth Untimely to the tomb.

Thus wasted are the ranks of men

Youth, Health, and Beauty fall;

The ruthless ruin spreads around,
And overwhelms us all.

Behold where, round thy narrow house,

The graves unnumber'd lie;

The multitude that sleep below

Existed but to die.

Some, with the tottering steps of Age,
Trod down the darksome way;
And some, in youth's lamented prime,
Like thee were torn away:

Yet these, however hard their fate,
Their native earth receives;

Amid their weeping friends they died,
And fill their fathers' graves.

From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart
Was taught by Heav'n to glow,

Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke
Surpris'd and laid thee low.

At the last limits of our isle,

Wash'd by the western wave, Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful bard Sits lonely by thy grave.

Pensive he eyes, before him spread
The deep, outstretch'd and vast;
His mourning notes are borne away
Along the rapid blast.

And while, amid the silent Dead
Thy hapless fate he mourns,
His own long sorrows freshly bleed,
And all his grief returns:

Like thee, cut off in early youth,
And flower of beauty's pride,
His friend, his first and only joy,
His much lov'd Stella, died.

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate
Resistless bears along;

And the same rapid tide shall whelm
The Poet and the Song.

The tear of pity which he sheds,
He asks not to receive;

Let but his poor remains be laid
Obscurely in the grave.

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy,
Shall meet the welcome shock:
His airy harp shall lie unstrung,
And silent on the rock.

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when
Shall this sick period close,
And lead the solitary bard
To his belov'd repose?

THE BARD AT INVERARY

WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,

I pity much his case,
Unless he comes to wait upon

The Lord their God, His Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
"Twas surely in his anger.

EPIGRAM TO MISS JEAN SCOTT

O HAD each Scot of ancient times
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art;
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author's.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew

The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

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