Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou deck'd in silken stole, Sprung from night, in darkness lost; Fear not clouds will always lour. As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair; As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Evils lurk in felon wait: Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, As the shades of ev'ning close, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; Say, man's true, genuine estimate, Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, ODE, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. STROPHE. View the wither'd beldam's face- of Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took-but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! ANTISTROPHE. Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; "Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies. EPODE. And are they of no more avail, O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. ELEGY ON CAPT. M. HENDERSON, A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. But now his radiant course is run, His soul was like the glorious sun, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, Come join my wail. |