When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue, Th' adored Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. 'I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, Misled by fancy's meteor ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven. 'I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila's plains, Become thy friends. 'Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe, With Shenstone's art: Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow Warm on the heart. "Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho' large the forest's monarch throws Yet green His army shade, the juicy hawthorn grows, Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi's mine, Nor kings' regard, Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, A rustic Bard. To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the Dignity of Man, With soul erect; And trust, the Universal Plan Will all protect. And wear thou this'-she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head: The polish'd leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled In light away. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID; My son, these maxims make a rule, The Rigid Righteous is a fool, The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight For random fits o' daffin. Solomon.-Eccles. vii. 16. O YE wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neebour's faults and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, But cast a moment's fair regard, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; See social life and glee sit down, Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown O, would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Then gently scan your brother man, One point must still be greatly dark, Who made the heart, 'tis He alone He knows each chord-its various tone, Then at the balance let's be mute, What's done we partly may compute, TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY 1. An honest man's the noblest work of God. HAS auld K********* seen the Deil? To preach an' read? Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel, POPE. 'Tam Samson's dead!' K ********* lang may grunt an' grane, To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead! The brethren of the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, Death's gien the lodge an unco devel: Tam Samson's dead! When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, 'the last of his fields;' and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. 2 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. 3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, stanza IX. |