HERE lies Erotion, whom at six years old
Fate pilfered. Stranger (when I too am cold,
Who shall succeed me in my rural field),
To this small spirit annual honours yield!
Bright be thy hearth, hale be thy babes, I crave
And this, in thy green farm, the only grave.
More verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
- Come, Here Is Adieu To The City
- Heather Ale: A Galloway Legend
- To The Commissioners Of Northern Lights
- To Auntie
- Stout Marches Lead To Certain Ends
