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

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! 1

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 powe as auld's Methusalem
He canty claw!

Then to the blessed new Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!

Note to Mr Renton of Lamerton.2

• blockhead.

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.

b wretch.


• ward off their attack. d stretched.

1 This verse is a later addition.

2 A relic of the Border tour.

• head.


Elegy on


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.

1 From a note-book given by Burns to Mrs Dunlop. Conceivably the piece may have been inspired by a memory of Highland Mary. Burns visited the West Highlands, alone, in June 1787.

Mary was his Phantôme d'Occident. The authorship is dubious; the present editor is inclined to regard the piece as Burns's own.

Pale grew the roses on thy cheek,
And wither'd was thy bloom,
Till the slow poison brought thy youth
Untimely to the tomb.

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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.

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The Bard at Inverary.1

WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon

The Lord their God,-His Grace.

1 Written on the Highland tour of June 1787. Insufficient attention was, apparently, paid to the poet: he may

even have been kept waiting for dinner.

There's naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger:
If Providence has sent me here,
'Twas surely in an 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.1

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

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.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil❜d.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung;
So Isabella's heart was form'd,

And so that heart was wrung.

1 Mr M'Leod was of the Raasay family: he died July 20, 1787 (Scott Douglas).

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