IV.

TO THE SONS OF BURNS,

AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER.

"The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses,

'Is there a man whose judgment clear,' &c."

Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-traveller.

'MID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true,

And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display,

If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!

But if the Poet's wit ye share,

Like him can speed

The social hour, of tenfold care

There will be need;

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,— and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;

And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the choir
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;

Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows ;
Or wiped his honorable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Let faith be given;

Nor deem that "light which leads astray, Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;

Your Father such example gave,
And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

And think, and fear!

V.

ELLEN IRWIN:

OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.*

FAIR Ellen Irwin, when she sat
Upon the braes of Kirtle,
Was lovely as a Grecian maid
Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;
Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
And there did they beguile the day
With love and gentle speeches,
Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires
The Bruce had been selected;
And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

*The Kirtle is a river in the southern part of Scotland, on the banks of which the events here related took place.

If Bruce hath loved sincerely,
That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what are Gordon's form and face,
His shattered hopes and crosses,
To them, 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,
Reclined on flowers and mosses?
Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,
Sees them and their caressing;
Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce He launched a deadly javelin!

Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, starting up to meet the same,

Did with her body cover

The Youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus from the heart of her True-love

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
The Gordon, sailed away to Spain,
And fought with rage incessant
Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,
And many years ensuing,

This wretched Knight did vainly seek
The death that he was wooing.

So, coming his last help to crave,
Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave
His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard
The tale I have been telling,
May in Kirkonnel churchyard view
The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;
And, for the stone upon his head,
May no rude hand deface it,
And its forlorn fic jacet!

VI.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these gray rocks; that household lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;