t suggested to William."

Rob Roy was buried at the Kirkton of Balquhidder, near the outlet of
Loch Voil in Perthshire. There are three sculptured stones in the rude
burial-place of the Macgregors, at the eastern end of the old church.
The one with the long claymore marks the resting-place of Rob Roy's
wife; the one opposite on the other side is the tomb of his eldest son;
and the central stone, more elaborately carved, marks the grave of the
hero himself.--Ed.

* * * * *

SONNET COMPOSED AT----CASTLE

Composed September 18, 1803.--Published 1807

[The castle here mentioned was Nidpath near Peebles. The person alluded
to was the then Duke of Queensbury. The fact was told to me by Walter
Scott.--I. F.]

In 1815 and 1820 this was one of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
Whom mere despite of heart could so far please, [1]
And love of havoc, (for with such disease
Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word
To level with the dust a noble horde, 5
A brotherhood of venerable Trees,
Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,
Beggared and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain
The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 10
On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

Now as I live, I pity that great Lord,
Whom pure despite ...

MS. letter to Sir Walter Scott. Oct. 1803.

Ill wishes shall attend the unworthy Lord MS.]

"Sunday, September 18th.--After breakfast walked up the river to
Neidpath Castle, about a mile and a half from the town. The castle
stands upon a green hill, over-looking the Tweed, a strong
square-towered edifice, neglected and desolate, though not in ruin,
the garden overgrown with grass, and the high walls that fenced it
broken down. The Tweed winds between green steeps, upon which, and
close to the river side, large flocks of sheep pasturing; higher still
are the grey mountains; but I need not describe the scene, for William
has done it better than I could do in a sonnet which he wrote th