BURNS.
TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822.
ild Rose of Alloway! my thanks;
Thou ’mindst me of that autumn noon
When first we met upon “the banks
And braes o’ bonny Doon.”
Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree’s bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief,
We’ve crossed the winter sea, and thou
Art withered—flower and leaf.
And will not thy death-doom be mine—
The doom of all things wrought of clay—
And withered my life’s leaf like thine,
Wild rose of Alloway?
Not so his memory, for his sake
My bosom bore thee far and long,
His—who a humbler flower could make
Immortal as his song,
