Slow Signal Fade ebooks

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.
Perhaps a mother's anguish adds its woe;
The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side;
Ah! helpless nurslings, who will now provide
That life a mother only can bestow!
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.


Delia, An Ode
"To the Editor of The Star.--Mr. Printer--If the productions of a simple
ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and
the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the
lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be
succeeded by future communications from--Yours, &c., R. Burns.
Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789."

Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty shows.


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