In 1832 he collected and published his poems in one volume. He was also associated with the Ettrick Shepherd in editing the works of Burns, and at the time of his death was collecting materials for the life of Tannahill, an humble weaver in Paisley, but one of the finest song-writers Scotland has ever produced. "Accompanied by a literary friend, on the first of November, 1835, he had been dining in the country, about a couple of miles from Glasgow, and on his return home, feeling indisposed, he went to bed. In a few hours thereafter he awakened, and complained of a pain in the head, which increased so much as to render him speechless. Medical assistance was speedily obtained; but alas! it was of no avail--the blow was struck, and the curtain had finally fallen over the life and fortunes of William Motherwell. One universal feeling of regret and sympathy seemed to extend over society, when the sudden and premature decease of this accomplished poet and elegant writer became known. His funeral was attended by a large body of the citizens, by the most eminent and learned of the literary professions, and by persons of all shades of political opinions. He was interred in the Necropolis of Glasgow, not far from the resting-place of his fast friend, Mr. William Henderson." Though Motherwell's death was thus sudden and unexpected, he seems to have had something like a premonition of it. The following touching lines were given to a friend, a day or two before his decease: When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping, That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping, Of heretofore? When the great winds through leafless forests rushing, Sad music make? When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gushing, Like full hearts break, Will there then one whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, With purest ray, And the small flowers their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay, Will there be one still on that spot repining, Lost hopes all day? When no star twinkles with its eye of glory, On that low mound, And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary, Its loneness crowned; Will there be then one versed in misery's story, Pacing it round? It may be so,--but this is selfish sorrow, To ask such meed-- A weakness and a wickedness to borrow From hearts that bleed, The waitings of to-day for what to-morrow Shall never need.