TJie Burnie. 193 



taken there sometimes. There is something infectious ) 

 in a running stream. It is the prettiest thing in nature. 

 Nothing adds so much to our midday enjoyment as one 

 of these babbling brooks, 



" Making music o er the enamelled stones, 

 And giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 

 It overtaketh in its pilgrimage." 



If there be " sermons in stones," I think it must be 

 when the pure water sings as it rushes over them. 



The Charioteers demanded that I should repeat 

 " The Burnie, " a gem by a true poet, Ballantyne. 

 Would you, my gentle reader, like also to know it ? I 

 think you would, for such as have followed me so far 

 must have something akin to me and surely will some- 

 times like what I like, and I like this much : 



" It drappit frae a gray rock upon a mossy stane, 

 An doon amang the green grass it wandered lang alane. 

 It passed the broomie knowe beyond the hunter's hill ; 

 It pleased the miller's bairns an it ca'd their faether's mill. 



" But soon anither bed it had, where the rocks met aboon, 

 And for a time the burnie saw neither sun nor moon. 

 But the licht o' heaven cam' again, its banks grew green and fair, 

 And many a bonnie flower in its season blossomed there ; 



" And ither burnies joined till its rippling song was o'er. 

 For the bum became a river ere it reached the ocean's shore. 

 And the wild waves rose to greet it wi' their ain eerie croon, 

 Working their appointed wark and never, never done. 

 13 



