Now, wha this tale of truth shall read, ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap less fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, On crowning his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with bays. While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer with a matron grace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here sowter **** in death does sleep; To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, ON A NOISY POLEMIC. Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes: O death, it's my opinion, Thou ne'er took such a blath'rin b-tch ON WEE JOHNNY. Hic jacet wee Johnnie. Whoe'er thou art, O, reader, know, An' here his body lies fu' low- FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side*." *Goldsmith. 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, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 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 softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name! Reader, attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul 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. |