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LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,
OF WHITEFORD, BART.
LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF
Thou, who thy honour as thy God reverst,
AWOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,
WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye!
The bitter little that of life remains ;
No more the thick’ning brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest :
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed !
Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the rufian's aim, and mourn thy hapless
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING HIS BUST
AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS, 1800.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or tunes Eolian strains between :
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
The progress of the spiky blade :
By Tweed erects his aged head,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
Shall bloom that wreath thou well bast won;
Proclaims that THOMSON was her son,
YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ;
• For ev’n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.'*
FOR R. A. ESQ.
FOR G. H. ESQ.
Whom canting wretches blam’d;
May I be sav'd or dd!
TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born September 5, 1751—Died October 16, 1774. No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
"No storied urn, nor animated bust,' This simple stone directs poor Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.
TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,
A VERY YOUNG LAVY.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.
BEAUTIOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Thou amid the dirgeful sound,
And waste my soul with care ;
When fated to despair!
To hope may be forgiv'n ;
So much in sight of Heav'n.
ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER
THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.
BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's.
thy tale, tbou idle page,
From Isabella's arms.
The morning rose may blow;
May lay its beauties low.
The sun propitious sinil'd;
Succeeding hopes beguil’d.