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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,
Let him draw near ;
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
0, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh,
Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Wild as the wave;
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
And softer flame,
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,
I rede you tent it:
And, faith, he'll prent it
If in your bounds ye chance to light
That's he, mark weel-
O'cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin*,
Some eldritch part,
At some black art.
* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,
Warlocks and witches;
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
He'll prove you fully,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
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,
Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
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 ;
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
Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms :
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;
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.