Telford The Poet
George Turnbull states that Telford wrote and gave him a poem:
- On reading an account of the death of ROBERT BURNS, the SCOT POET
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- CLAD in the sable weeds of woe,
- The Scottish genius mourns,
- As o'er your tomb her sorrows flow,
- The "narrow house" of Burns.
- CLAD in the sable weeds of woe,
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- Each laurel round his humble urn,
- She strews with pious care,
- And by soft airs to distance borne,
- These accents strike the ear.
- Each laurel round his humble urn,
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- Farewell my lov'd, my favourite child,
- A mother's pride farewell!
- The muses on thy cradled smiled,
- Ah! now they ring thy knell.
- Farewell my lov'd, my favourite child,
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- ---- ten verses and then ----
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- And round the tomb the plough shall pass,
- And yellow autumn smile ;
- And village maids shall seek the place,
- To crown thy hallowed pile.
- And round the tomb the plough shall pass,
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- While yearly comes the opening spring,
- While autumn wan returns ;
- Each rural voice shall grateful sing,
- And SCOTLAND boasts of BURNS.
- While yearly comes the opening spring,
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- 22nd August, 1796. T.T.
(Turnbull includes notes that explain nine references to Burns' life in the poem.)
Turnbull also states:
- "His ability and perseverance may be understood from various literary compositions of after life, such as the articles he contributed to the Edinburgh Encyclopædia, such as Architecture, Bridge-building, and Canal-making. Singular to say the earliest distinction he acquired in life was as a poet. Even at 30 years of age he reprinted at Shrewsbury a poem called "Eskdale", … Some others of his poems are in my possession."
Read more about this topic: Thomas Telford
Famous quotes containing the word poet:
“If you would get money as a writer or lecturer, you must be popular, which is to go down perpendicularly.... You are paid for being something less than a man. The state does not commonly reward a genius any more wisely. Even the poet laureate would rather not have to celebrate the accidents of royalty. He must be bribed with a pipe of wine; and perhaps another poet is called away from his muse to gauge that very pipe.”
—Henry David Thoreau (18171862)