Slow Signal Fade ebooks

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.


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