SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL; APRIL, 1794. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more, Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, [roar. More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful song attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And sooth the Virtues weeping on his bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his narrow house' for ever darkly low. 6 Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. The Epitaph. HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. 'S BIRTH-DAY. NOVEMBER 4, 1793. OLD Winter with his frosty beard, That brilliant gift will so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; 'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. TO MISS JESSY L DUMFRIES; WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, And wakeful caution still aware SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH OF JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S** E, ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY; 17TH DECEMBER, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, And cook'ry the first in the nation; Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, Is proof to all other temptation. TO MR. S** E, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind, "Twere drink for first of human kind, Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. e were fit. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal, Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, That one pound one, I sairly want it: |