ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

Below thir ftanes lie Jamie's banes;

O Death, it's my opinion,

Thou ne'er took such a bleth'ran b-tch,

Into thy dark dominion!

ON WEE JOHNIE.

Hic jacet wee Jobnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
That Death has murder'd Johnie;

An' here his body lies fu' low-
For faul he ne'er had ony.

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 Hufband'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 fide. *

FOR R. A. Efq;

Know thou, O ftranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honor'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. Efq;

The poor man weeps-here G-N fleeps, Whom canting wretches blam'd:

But with fuch as he, where'er he be,

May I be fav'd or d'd!

F f

*Goldfmith.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

Below thir ftanes lie Jamie's banes;

O Death, it's my opinion,

Thou ne'er took fuch a bleth'ran b-tch,

Into thy dark dominion!

ON WEE JOHNIE.

Hic jacet wee fobnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,
That Death has murder'd Johnie;

An' here his body lies fu' low-
For faul he ne'er had ony.

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O

ye whose cheek the tear of pity ftains,

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving Hufband's dear remains,

The tender Father, and the gen'rous Friend.

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 fofter flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And ftain'd his name!

Reader attend-whether thy foul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit,

Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul

Is Wifdom's root.

FINIS.

A BARD'S EPITA P H.

S there a whim-infpir'd fool,

Ist

Owre faft for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to feek, owre proud to fnool,

Let him draw near;

And o'er this graffy heap fing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of ruftic fong,

Who, noteless, steals the crouds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But with a frater-feeling ftrong,

Here, heave a figh.

Is there a man whofe judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,