And feel no delight when such pictures unfold,

And would blot out forever from memory's page

The records of childhood which solace old age?

'Till time ends for me and with life I have done,

I'll dream of the days when we fished in Clark's Run!

[Pg 25]

[Pg 25]

ROBERT BURNS.

(A PARAPHRASE.)

Thou lingering Star! No less'ning ray

Will e'er bedim thy natal morn,

Or usher in the unhallowed day

When we forget that thou wert born!

O Burns! Thou dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou again a Highland maid,

Who heard the groans that rent thy breast?

That sacred day can we forget,

Can we forget the hallowed spot

Where by the winding Ayr was set

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