DEAR SIR, at ony time or tide,
I’d rather sit wi’ you than ride,
Though ’twere wi’ royal Geordie:
And trowth, your kindness, soon and late,
Aft gars me to mysel’ look blate—
The Lord in Heav’n reward ye!R. BURNS.ELLISLAND.
by John CiardiThere are diagrams on stilts all wired together
Over the hill and the wind and out of sight.
There is a scar in the trees where they walk away
Beyond me. There are signs of something
Nearly God (or at ...