EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. HERE lies a rose, a budding rose, Whose innocence did sweets disclose She's from a world of woe relieved, EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON. HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, He's blestif, as he brew'd, he drink ON STIRLING. HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd, A race outlandish fills their throne. An idiot race to honour lost, Who know them best, despise them most. LINES ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS. 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, ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 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, She likes- as lambkins like a knife. 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'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! Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack-Go on, my lord! I lang to meet ville, you, 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; Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, Mark ruffian violence, distain'd with crimes, Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, |