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With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.
And spent the chearful, festive night;
Presided o'er the sons of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa’!
Unite you in the grand design,
The glorious Architect divine !
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard that's far awa’.
1 Prepare, my dear brethren, to the taverri
1. No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman por soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
II. The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; 1 scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
III. Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you the crown how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
VI. “ Life's cares they are comforts*"-a maxim laid
down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the
black gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heav'n of care.
A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
Young's Night Thoughts.
Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Life is but a day at most,
As youth and love with sprightly dance,
As thy day grows warm and high,
As the shades of ev'ning close, Beck'ning thee to long repose ; As life itself becomes disease, Seek the chimney-nook of ease. There ruminate with sober thought, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought;
And teach the sportive younkers rouifh
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
View the wither'd beldam's face. Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, Pity's flood there never rose. See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, Hands that took-but never gave. Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest ; She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; "Tis thy trusty quondam mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driv'n! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Espires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.