HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON THE POET

INSCRIPTION FOR THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON THE POET

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
'No storied urn nor animated bust';
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way,
To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired,

Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,

And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives

A brother Bard-he can no more bestow;
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
A nobler monument than Art can show.

ADDRESS TO YOUTH

SPOKEN IN A THEATER

YE sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;

That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

WINTER: A DIRGE

WINTER: A DIRGE

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

'The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'
The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm I rest; they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want-O do Thou grant

This one request of mine!

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

VERSES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side,

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste,
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste,
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream,
The village glittering in the noontide beam-

Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;

VERSES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch

her scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.