And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;
and, thro' the starting tear
Survey this grave.

Here pause,

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

Reader, attend

And stain'd his na.ne'

whether thy soul

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,

Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control

Is wisdom's root

VERSES

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS.

SWEET flowret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o' monie a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of wo and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother-plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn;
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand;

And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.

LINES

DY SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH TURIT, A WILA SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OUGHTERTYBE.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly ?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free!
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the shelt'ring rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace;
Man, your proud, usurping foe,

Would be lord of all below;

Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,

Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle from the cliffy brow
Marking you, his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels,
But man, to whom alone is giv'a
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n

Glories in his heart humane,

And creatures for his pleasure slain!

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
Ali on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,

Other lakes and other springs;

And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

SONNET

WRITTEN ON The 25th of JANUARY, 1793, the nirtë,

DAY OF THe author, în hearing a THRUSH, IN 4
MORNING walk.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See! aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol, clears his furrow'd brow;
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 op'ning day,

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share

ON SENSIBILITY.

to MY DEAR AND MUCH HONORED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP, OF Dunlop.

SENSIBILITY! how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow;

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of wo.