TO DR. JOHN BROWN

Beyond the north wind lay the land of old

Where men dwelt blithe and blameless, clothed and fed

With joy's bright raiment and with love's sweet bread,

The whitest flock of earth's maternal fold.

None there might wear about his brows enrolled

A light of lovelier fame than rings your head,

Whose lovesome love of children and the dead

All men give thanks for: I far off behold

A dear dead hand that links us, and a light

The blithest and benignest of the night,

The night of death's sweet sleep, wherein may be

A star to show your spirit in present sight

Some happier island in the Elysian sea

Where Rab may lick the hand of Marjorie.