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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 sball redeem from his
THE EPITAPH. .
Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam,
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.
-'s Birth-day, 4th Nov. 1793.
Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his pray’r preferr'd ;
What have I done of all the
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow :
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now Jove, for once he mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's vatal day!
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 MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED 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 flow'r, behold the lily,
Blooming in the summer 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 woe.
My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your int’rest in the poet's weal :
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to-speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,
And potion glasses.
O what a canty warld were it,
Would paiu, and care, and sickness spare it ;
And fortune favour worth and merit,
As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne w ba would starve:) Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And io paste and frippery deck her, Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker,
l've found her still; Ay, wavering, ke a willow wicker,
'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a clute on
Wi' felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's off like fire.
Ah! Nick, ah! Nick, it is nae fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen thy spider spare
O' bell's damo'd waft.
Poor man the flie, aft bizzies bye,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn’d elbow yeuks wi' joy
And hellish pleasure-
Already in thy fancy's eye,
Thy sicker treasure.
Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he bangs,
And like a sheep-head on the tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd'ring wrestle, As dangling in the wind he hangs
A gibbet's tassel,
But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a'intentions evil;
I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us: frae the devil!
Amen ! amen!
FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE,
At Kerrouchtry, the seat of Mr. Heron.
Written in Summer, 1795.
THOU, of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ;
Prepar'd Pow'r's prondest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave :
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L
WITH BOOKS THAT THE BARD PRESENTED HER.
THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's pray'r;.
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindness best presage,
Of future bliss, enrolthy name
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution, still aware,
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare ;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.
I CALL no goodness to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigos;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night,
If ought that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years !
As I stood by yon roofless tow'r,
Where the wa’-flow'r scents the dewy air,
Where th' houlet mouros in her ivy bow'r,
And tells the moon her midnight care :
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;