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FOR R. A. ESQ.

Know thou, o stranger to the fame of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

The poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam'd: But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or d-d!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near ;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

0, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh,

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

Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, through 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 softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name !

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

In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul

Is wisdom's root.

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE:S

Peregrinations thro' Scotland, collecting the

antiquities of that kingdom.

Hear, land o' cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you, taking notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel-
And wow! he has an unco slight

O'cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin*,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
Its ten to ane ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, L-d safe's! colleaguin

At some black art.

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor,
And you deep read in hell's black grammar,

Warlocks and witches;
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bees.

Its tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than fled ; But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,

And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the-antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets*, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,

A towmont gude; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,

Before the food.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender

O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,

Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you af fu' gleg
The cut of Adam's philibeg ;
The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,
It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three

Gude fellows wi' him ;

* Vide his Treatise on ancient armour and weapons.

Anu port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose !Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee; I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, shame fa' thec.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

Written on the blank leaf of a book, presented to

her by the author.

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming on thy early May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r !
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights !
Never, never reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
'Till some ev’ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,

And waste my soul with care ; But ah! how bootless to admire,

When fated to despair !

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,

To hope may be forgiv'n ;
For sure 'twere impious to despaír,

So much in sight of Heav'n.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN MʻLEOD, ESQ.

Brother to a young lady, a particular friend of

the author's.

Sad thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms :
Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew

The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts

May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds

Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords

That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was form'd,

And so that heart was wrung.

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