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LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,

OF WHITEFORD, BART.

WITH THE LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF

GLENCAIRN.'

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive off 'ring I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st; I, the patron, lov'd;
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd.
We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world un-
known.

ON SEEING

A WOUNDED 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!
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field,
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!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

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 ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

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 pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between :
While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son.

EPITAPH

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 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.’*

EPITAPH

FOR R. A. ESQ.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much-lov'd, much-honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

THE

EPITAPH.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

poor man weeps-here G-
Whom canting wretches blam'd;

But with such as he, where'er he be,
May I be sav'd or d―d!

• Goldsmith.

n sleeps,

INSCRIPTION

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 LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTIOUS rose-bud, young and gay,

Blooming on thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r !

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never, reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor ev'n Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem ;
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;

Thou amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,

And waste my soul with care;
But, ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv'n;
For sure 'twere impious to despair
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.

SAD

thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms;

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

`Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long erè noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

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