Verses to the Memory of an Engaging Youth, UNCOMMONLY ATTACHED TO LEARNING. HERE, stranger! pause, and sadly o'er this stone, Mild was his temper, and his soul serene; Truth warm'd his breast and dwelt upon his tongue: With such a son, what was his parents' joy? Yet they submit to Heaven's wise-acting power; First Epistle to Mr. James Bennety. As when, by play retarded, past his hour, The scampering school-boy ventures to the door, With throbbing breast lists to the busy noise, And starts to hear the master's awful voice; Oft sighs and looks-now offers to burst in, Now backwards shrinks and dreads a smarting skin; Till desperate grown, by fear detain'd more late, He lifts the latch and boldly meets his fate. So I, dear sir, have oft snatch'd up the quill To hail your ear, yet have been silent still. Awed by superior worth my pen forgot No flowery sweets I bring though Summer reigns, As griefs reveal'd are robbed of half their sting, That long have harbour'd in my labouring breast. Stalks round and threatens to deform my fate; 66 Old Age and I shall curse thy evening days; His shaking hand shall change thy locks to gray, Then mad Ambition revels through my brain, -'s praise, our villa's friendly sire; Where songsters warble and where lambkins bleat; Hills rough with woods that towering cleave the sky; And darksome woody vales, where hid from sight, Lone Calder brawls o'er many a rocky height; Tell in soft strains how rich our plains appear, What plenty crowns them each revolving year; Till smiles approving bless my task, and Fame Enrol the patriot and the poet's name. But when (sad theme!) I view my feeble rhyme, And weigh my worth for such a flight sublime, With tearful eye survey the fate of those, Whose powerful learning shielded not from foes; Damp'd at the thought, Fear clogs the Muse's wing, And grief and hope by turns inspire or sting. While such sad thoughts, such grim reflections roll, In dark succession o'er my gloomy soul, One ray from you to chase the cheerless gloom, When darkness reigns, or evening silence deep, First Epistle to Fr. James Dobie. CLOSED in a garret spread wi' beuks, Whare spider wabs in dozens, Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks, Ne'er shows his face discreetly, Save whan out owre the Misty-Law, He's flitherin' downward sweetly, To close the day. Here sits the bardie, sir, his lane, Right glad to fest retired; His griefs and girnin' cares a' gane, The Muses round him dancin' thrang, Their skill fu' proud to show it; In lively measure, thun'erin' lang, Oh! how my heart exulting loups, To meet a chiel like you; Wi' ease each day. Yet some there are whase flinty hearts, And ca' them daudron b-ch-s. Or salts, that day. Anither set comes in my view, Atrampin' Heaven's way in; See! how they shake their leads, and groo To hear a rhyme-repeater, And solemnly declare the Psalms To be the far best metre On earth, this day. Poor brainless wights! they little ken Its charms, its soaring fire; In every age the best of men, Have raptured, tuned the lyre: 'Tis this that breathes Job's mournful plaints, Or aids him to adore; And this the seraph's mouth and saints, Will fill when time's no more, But endless day. Whan bonny Spring adorns the year, And birds on blossom'd branches clear, Whare dewy flowers are ranket, Till height o' day. I ne'er was rich, nor ever will, But ony time ye come To our bit town, we'se hae a gill, An' owr't we'se no sit dumb. A gill, man, spreads the Muse's wing, And gars her mount, and soar, and sing, Till she maist gains the border O' brightest day. Elegy on the Death of W. Wotherspoon. A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. SUNK was the sun 'midst clouds of gold, Lone Night reign'd from her starry dome, When slow I left the bleating fold, And weary sought my little home. C |