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;
     Grieg’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.

     R. Burns

Elegy On “Stella”

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 earthy 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.