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It begins: "To go or not to go; that is the question, Whether 'tis best to trust the inclement sky, That scowl's indignant, or the dreary bay Of Fundy and Cape Sable's rocks and shoals, And seek our new domain in Scotia's wilds, Barren and bare, or stay among the rebels, And by our stay rouse up their keenest rage."

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 'No storied urn nor animated bust; This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." On the other side of the stone is as follows: "By special grant of the managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this burial place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." EDINBURGH, March 22nd, 1787.

Every detail told of a capable and energetic farmer, who knew a good horse and the best use that could be made of pig and cow. There were no loose ends, everything was in its place and in the best of order. The hour I was left alone with Archie's father and mother was as refreshing as a breeze from Scotia's heath-clad hills.

Earl Grey, who at the time presided over the Colonial Office, was a strong believer in private enterprise, and was opposed to government interference. In July he had returned a curt refusal to Nova Scotia's request. But Howe had a strong and, as the result proved, a well-founded belief in his own powers of persuasion. His visit was a triumph, or rather a series of triumphs.

Finding it impossible to form any views, I drifted from one extreme to the other. Something was out there, that much was certain, and any doubting Thomas was invited to place his finger on the Scotia's wound. When I arrived in New York, the question was at the boiling point.

It had pierced a large triangular hole through the steel plates of the Scotia's hull, and would certainly have sunk the vessel had it not been divided into seven water-tight compartments, any one of which could stand injury without danger to the vessel. It was three hundred miles off Cape Clear that the Scotia encountered this mysterious monster.

At least I am resolved to try my doctrine by the test of experience. There is a class of people, however, to whom this will sound heretical, forbidding them, as it were, the right to babble with grovelling familiarity of Rab, Rob, Robbie, Scotia's Bard, and the Ploughman Poet; and insisting on his name being spoken with conscious pride of utterance, Robert Burns, Poet.

If Robert Burns and Walter Scott had never told the tales and sung the songs of their native land, no endless streams of pilgrims would pour to its shrines and its history and traditions would be vastly second in interest to those of England and Wales. But the Wizard of the North touched Scotia's rough hills with the rosy hues of his romance.

It sounds reasonable. How foolish they will look standing side by side. Perhaps you don't know Beattie, but I assure you that he was a poet. He wrote those majestic lines: "The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; The sickle, scythe or plough he never swayed An honest heart was almost all his stock."

Born September 5th, 1751; died 16th October, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied urn nor animated bust"; This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrow o'er her poet's dust. On the reverse side is recorded the fact that the stone was erected by Robert Burns, and that the ground was to remain for ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson.