[Footnote B:  Compare Burns’s poem ‘To a Mountain Daisy’, l. 15.—­Ed.]

[Footnote C:  See Burns’s ‘A Bard’s Epitaph’, l. 19.—­Ed.]

[Footnote D:  Compare ‘The Tomb of Burns’, by William Watson, 1895.—­Ed.]

* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a:  See in his poem the ’Ode to Ruin’.—­Ed.]

The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth’s Journal of the Tour in Scotland: 

“Thursday, August 18th.—­Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried.  A bookseller accompanied us.  He showed us the outside of Burns’s house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died.  It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed....  Went on to visit his grave.  He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him.  There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.

‘There,’ said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, ’there lies Mr. Such-a-one.  I have forgotten his name.  A remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook.  Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.’

  We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections,
  repeating to each other his own verses.

    ’Is there a man whose judgment clear,
    Can others teach the way to steer,
    Yet runs himself life’s mad career,
                Wild as the wave? 
    Here let him pause, and through a tear
                Survey this grave.

    The poor Inhabitant below
    Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
    And keenly felt the friendly glow,
                And softer flame;
    But thoughtless follies laid him low
                And stained his name.’

“I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns’s house, the last view we had of them.  Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say: 

                     ’Seurfell [E] from the sky,
    That Anadale [F] doth crown, with a most amorous eye,
    Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,
    Oft threatening me with clouds, as I oft threatening him!’

“These lines recurred to William’s memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes.”

Ed.