EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER.
HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;
Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given -
She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in Heaven.
EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON.
HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
And empty all his barrels ;
He's blestif, as he brew'd, he drink
In upright honest morals.
HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne.
An idiot race to honour lost,
Who know them best, despise them most.
ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS
RASH mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel?
TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.
LONG life, my Lord, an' health be | But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes- as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in
sight,
I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water
Than up amang thae lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire May to Patrician rights aspire!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and
herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails! The young dogs, swinge them to the labour!
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober! The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack-Go on, my lord! I lang to meet ville,
An' in my house at hame to greet
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.
OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION.
LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vice-gerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.
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