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THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

TUNE-Humours of Glen.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, [vale; The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morn

ing, [dale: And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? [singing, No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills and his right are these valleys, [find none.

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn:

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

EPIGRAM

ON

CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE,

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY.

THE Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning,

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd! confounded! cry'd Satan, by G-d, I'll want 'im, ere I take such a d

-ble load'.

EPIGRAM

ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF MARTIAL'S

EPIGRAMS.

O THOU whom Poetry abhors,

Whom Prose had turned out of doors, Heard'st thou that groan?-proceed no further, 'Twas laurel'd Martial roaring murder.

1 Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself, with the greatest good humour, on the singular rotundity of his figure.

1

EPITAPHS.

ON

A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

HERE Souter Will in death does sleep;
To h-ll, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,
He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes:
O death, it's my opinion,

Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch,
Into thy dark dominion!

ON WEE JOHNNY.

Hic jacet wee Johnny.

WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know,

That death has murder'd Johnny!

An' here his body lies fu' low

For saul he ne'er had ony.

EPITAPHS.

223

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O 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'.'

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.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

THE poor man weeps-here G- -n sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd:

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

1 Goldsmith.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

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;

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

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,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,
Is wisdom's root.

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