A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE I. O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause In whose dread presence, ere an hour, II. If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done; III. Thou know'st that thou hast formed me IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. V. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran ? O thou, great Governor of all below! To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. I. O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above! II. The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, III. She, who her lovely offspring eyes VI. Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, V. The beauteous, seraph sister band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on every hand, Guide thou their steps alway! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, THE FIRST PSALM. THE man, in life wherever placed, Nor learns their guilty lore! Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt For why? that God the good adore A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. Thy creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul, Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act From cruelty or wrath! O free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! That power which raised and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou givest the word: Thy creature, man, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou takest them off They flourish like the morning flower, But long ere night cut down it lies Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast. When upward-springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, Adorns the histie stibble-field, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem. TO RUIN. I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel wo-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all! With stern-resolved, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then lowering, and pouring, The storm no more I dread ; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head. II. And, thou grim power, by life abhorr❜d, O! hear a wretch's prayer! To close this scene of care! Resign life's joyless day; My weary heart its throbbing cease, TO MISS L WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckie they may grieve ye. III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked: But och mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek through every other man, Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection. VI. The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, That's justified by honour; VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, Let that aye be your border; The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, So row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea. He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera diel, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Though owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While through your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, An' cut you up with ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view Poor devil! see him owre his trash, |