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, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. The friend thou valued'st; I, the patron, lov'd; ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field, 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: Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait 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 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 THE EPITAPH. FOR G. H. ESQ. poor man weeps-here G- But with such as he, where'er he be, • 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, Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor ev'n Sol too fiercely view May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Thou amid the dirgeful sound, The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. SONG. ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire, And waste my soul with care; Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 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 Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long erè noon, succeeding clouds |