rofessor Wilson. In reply to the toast of
his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the
hill-side and in the city; and now, when he looked around and saw so
many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could
exclaim that surely he had found it at last!

The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and
well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety,
as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London,
a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom
complained; and, even so late as April 1835, he gave to the world
evidence of remaining bodily and mental vigour, by publishing a work in
three volumes, under the title of "Montrose Tales." This proved to be
his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and,
though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in
the month of August, he could hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman.
He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length
obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks,
he died on the 21st of November, "departing this life," writes William
Laidlaw, "as calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he
had fallen asleep, in his gray plaid, on the side of the moorland rill."
The Shepherd had attained his sixty-fifth year.

The funeral of the Bard was numerously attended by the population of the
district. Of his literary friends--owing to the remoteness of the
locality--Professor Wilson alone attended. He stood uncovered at the
grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated, by his
tears, the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the
exception of Burns and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive
more elegies or tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with
Wordsworth; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the
first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen
appeared in the _Athenaeum_ of the 12th of December:--

"When first descending from the moorlands,
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide,
Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide.

"When last along its banks I wander'd,
Through groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathway,
My steps the Border Minstrel led.

"The mighty minstrel breathes no l