THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam,
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.

ODE,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS.

OF

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonor'd years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!

STROPHE.

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!

ANTISTROPHE.

PLUND'RER of armies, lift thine eyes,

(Awhile forbear, ye tott'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, hellward plies.

EPODE.

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 mock'ry of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is drivn!
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n

30*

THE HEN-PECKED HUSBAND.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission,
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell,
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b-h

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788

FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn,

E'en let them die

- for that they're born!
But, oh! prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight! in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyment thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;

The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdy-cocks;

The ane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;

The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden!

Ye ministers, come, mount the pulpit'
An' cry till ye be hoarse an' rupit;
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel,
An' gied you a' baith gear an meal:
E'en monie a plack, an' monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again!

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowie now they creep;
Nay, ev'n the yirth itsel' does cry,
For Embro' wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine! thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, half-shackl'd regert
But, like himself, a full, free agent:
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man!

As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789.

Or R -‡ again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

"Na, waur than a'!" cries like a chiel,
Tam Samson's dead!

K

lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,

An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To death she's dearly paid the kane:
Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren of the mystic level,
May hing their head in wofu' bevel,

While by the nose the tears will revel,
Like onie bead;

Death's gien the lodge an unco devel:
Tam Samson's dead!

When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields;" and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint, the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

A certain preacher, a great favorite with the million. Vide the Or dination, stanza ii.

Another preacher, an equal favorite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, stanza ix.