enriddel, so cautions and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers contend?
Though fate said--a hero shall perish in light;
So up rose bright Phoebus--and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink;--
"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink;
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 108: See Ossian's Carie-thura.]

[Footnote 109: See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides]

* * * * *

CXXIII.

ELEGY

ON

MISS BURNET,

OF MONBODDO.

[This beautiful and accomplished lady, the heavenly Burnet, as Burns
loved to call her, was daughter to the odd and the elegant, the clever
and the whimsical Lord Monboddo. "In domestic circumstances," says
Robert Chambers, "Monboddo was particularly unfortunate. His wife, a
very beautiful woman, died in child-bed. His son, a promising boy, in
whose education he took great delight, was likewise snatched from his
affections by a premature death; and his second daughter, in personal
loveliness one of the first women of the age, was cut off by
consumption, when only twenty-five years old." Her name was
Elizabeth.]

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work, the Godhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm--Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, wh