331 



AN ELEGY. 



Our children will perhaps know less than we do of 

 the delightful poems of Robert Burns, composed as so 

 many of them w : ere whilst he followed the plough, with 

 ever a keen eye for bird and blossom wherever his w'ork 

 might lead him. I cannot resist quoting here that 

 wonderful elegy of his : 



" Mourn, ye wee songsters of the wood; 

 Ye Grouse that crap the heather bud ; 

 Ye Curlews, calling thro' a clud ; 



Ye whistling Plover, 

 And mourn, ye whirring Paitrick broo', 



He's gane for ever ! 



Mourn, sooty Coots and speckled Teals; 



Ye fisher Herons, watching eels ; 



Ye Duck and Drake, wi' airy wheels, 



Circling the lake. 

 Ye Bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 



Rair for his sake ! 



Mourn, clam'ring Crakes at close of day 

 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay, 

 And when ye wing your annual way 



Frae our cauld shore, 

 Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay 



Wham we deplore. 



Ye Howlets frae your ivy bow^'r 

 In some old tree or eldritch tow'r, 

 What time the moon wi' silent glow'r, 



Sets up her horn : 

 Wail through the dreary midnight hour 



Till w r aukrife morn !" 



