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Winter

111

Despondency

112

To Ruin

114

Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, on the approach of

Spring

115

The Lameni, occasioned by the unfortunate issue of a

Friend's Amour

116

Lament of a Mother

for the Death of her son

Lament for James, Édrl of Glencairn

119

Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, of Whiteford, Bart.

with the foregoing Poem

121

Strathallan's Lament

ib.

The Chevalier's Lament.

122

The Author's Farewell to his Native Country

ib.

Farewell to Ayrshire

123

The Farewell to the Brethren of St. James's Lodge, Tar

bolton

124

Farewell to Eliza

125

Highland Mary

ib.

To Mary in Heaven

126

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo

127

Verses on reading, in a newspaper, the death of John

M'Leod, Esq. brother to a young lady, a particular

friend of the Author's

· 128

sõnnet on the death of Robert Riddel, Esg. of Gien Rid
del, April, 1794

ib.

Verses on the death of Sir James Hunter Blair 129

Address to the Shade of Thomson on crowning his Bust,

at Ednam, Roxburgshire, with Bays

130

Epitaph for the Author's Father

for R. A. Esq.

ib.

on a Friend

il.

A Bard's Epitaph

132

Verses on the birth of a posthumous child, born in pecu-

liar circumstances of family distress

ib.

On Sensibility

133

Verses on seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a fel-

low had just shot at

134

Lines on scaring some Water-fowl in Loch T'urit, 8

wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre

Sonnet, written on the 25th of January, 1793, the birth-

day of the author, on hearing a thrush in a morning

walk

135

To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest, with the

Plough, November, 1785

136

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down with the

Plough, April, 1786

137

The humblo Petition of Bruar Water

138

131

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THERE is no poet of the present age more deservedly popular than Burns. Though born in an humble station in life, he raised himself, by the mere exertions of his mind, to the highest pitch of intellectual greatness. The originality of his genius, the energy of his language, and the richness of his imagination, merited the gratitude as well as the admiration of his countrymen. But bis highest efforts, in which the tide of human feeling seemed to flow in deep and exhaustless channels, failed to soften the avarice of a mean and selfish aristocracy. Like his native and lonely hills, he was subject to every blast, and exposed naked and bare to every tempest. No refreshing showers came to rest upon his head, or to pour fertility into his bosom. He was an elevated point, round which the storm clung and gathered; a prominent rock condemned by nature as it were to endure the buffetings of the surge. Yet his rude splendour remained uninjured. Amidst the bitter waters

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