Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,* His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum°— Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, But every joy and pleasure's fled, May I be Slander's common speech; When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH, May never wicked Fortune touzle him! Then to the blessed new Jerusalem, Note to Mr Renton of Lamerton.2 • blockhead. YOUR billet, Sir, I grant receipt; b wretch. R. BURNS. • ward off their attack. d stretched. 1 This verse is a later addition. 2 A relic of the Border tour. • head. ELEGY ON "STELLA" Elegy on "Stella."1 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; Pardon my transport, gentle shade, Not one poor stone to tell thy name, I'll sit me down upon this turf, Dark is the dwelling of the dead, I saw the grim Avenger stand 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, Behold where, round thy narrow house, Some, with the tottering steps of age, Yet these, however hard their fate, From thy lov'd friends, when first thy heart At the last limits of our isle, Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful bard Pensive he eyes, before him spread The Bard at Inverary.1 WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here, 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, Epigram to Miss Jean Scott. O HAD each Scot of ancient times On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq.1 Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend 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 Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Fate oft tears the bosom chords And so that heart was wrung. 1 Mr M'Leod was of the Raasay family: he died July 20, 1787 (Scott Douglas). |