EPITAPH ON WALTER S.

Sic a reptile was Wat,

Sic a miscreant slave,

That the worms ev'n damn'd him When laid in his grave. "In his flesh there's a famine,"

A starv'd reptile cries;

"An' his heart is rank poison," Another replies.

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS,

BY EDWARD RUSHTON.

POOR wildly sweet uncultur'd flow'r,
Thou lowliest of the Muse's bow'r,

"Stern ruin's ploughshare, 'mang the stowre, "Has crush'd thy stem,"

"And sorrowing verse shall mark the hour, "Thou bonnie gem."

'Neath the green turf, dear Nature's child, Sublime, pathetic, artless, wild,

Of all thy quips and cranks despoil'd,

Cold dost thou lie!

And many a youth and maiden mild
Shall o'er thee sigh!

Those pow'rs that eagle-wing'd could soar,
That heart which ne'er was cold before,
That tongue which caus'd the table roar,
Are now laid low,

And Scotia's sons shall hear no more
Thy rapt'rous flow.

Warm'd with " a spark o' Nature's fire,"
From the rough plough thou didst aspire

To make a sordid world admire ;

And few like thee,

Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstasy.

Ere winter's icy vapours fail,
The violet in the uncultur'd dale,
So sweetly scents the passing gale,
That shepherd boys,

Led by the fragrance they inhale,

Soon find their prize.

So when to life's chill glens confin'd,
Thy rich, tho' rough untutor'd mind,
Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind
Such sonsy lays,

That to thy brow was soon assign'd
The wreath of praise.

Anon, with nobler daring blest,

The wild notes throbbing at thy breast,
Of friends, wealth, learning unpossess'd,
Thy fervid mind

Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldy press'd,
And pleas'd mankind.

But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please, When want approach'd and pale disease; Could these thy infant brood appease

That wail'd for bread?

Or could they, for a moment, ease

Thy wo-worn head?

Applause, poor child of minstrelsy,
Was all the world e'er gave to thee;
Unmov'd, by pinching penury

They saw thee torn,

And now, kind souls! with sympathy,

Thy loss they mourn.

Oh! how I loath the bloated train,
Who oft had heard thy dulcet strain;
Yet, when thy frame was rack'd with pain,

Could keep aloof,

And eye with opulent disdain.

Thy lowly roof.

Yes, proud Dumfries, oh! would to Heaven
Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven,
Thou might'st have found some shelt'ring haven
On this side Tweed :-

Yet, ah! e'en here, poor Bards have striven,
And died in need.

True genius scorns to flatter knaves,
Or crouch amidst a race of slaves;
His soul, while fierce the tempest raves,
No tremor knows,

And with unshaken nerve he braves

Life's pelting woes.

No wonder, then, that thou shouldst find

Th' averted glance of half mankind;