And dearly felt the amorous glow
And social flame
But thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained him name.”
A spirit kindred to that of Robert Burns and one whose fame shall never perish, or be dimmed while “Annie Laurie” is sung—and where is it not sung? It is that of Robert Tannahill, a poor Paisley weaver. We have stood on the bridge which spans the canal near the city, and looked with sorrowful interest into that pool in the corner, where, driven by the demons of poverty and unappreciated talent, the disracted author ended his brief life. He was a true poet. He wrote many songs that the world will not willingly let die. One of the stanzas is peculiarly fine in its delicacy and tenderness:
“Towering o’er the Newton woods
Laverocks fan the snaw white clouds
Siller saughs wi downy buds
Adorn the banks sae biery.
Sweet the snaw flowers early bell