Verses to the Memory of an Engaging Youth,

UNCOMMONLY ATTACHED TO LEARNING.

HERE, stranger! pause, and sadly o'er this stone,
A moment ponder on the deeds of Fate:
Snatch'd hence in blooming youth, here moulders one,
Whose life seem'd worthy of a longer date.

Mild was his temper, and his soul serene;

Truth warm'd his breast and dwelt upon his tongue:
Oft would he wander from the noisy scene,
To list, while Virgil or bold Homer sung.

With such a son, what was his parents' joy?
No thought can reach it, nor no tongue can tell ;
Nor paint their anguish when the lovely boy,
By death assaulted, pale and lifeless fell.

Yet they submit to Heaven's wise-acting power;
And think, oh reader! as thou treads this sod,
He once like thee enjoy'd life's glittering hour;
Thou soon like him must pass death's gloomy road.

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
Its wonted power, and trembled out a blot;
The Muse sat mute and hung her languid head,
And Fancy crawl'd with diffidence and dread;
Till forced at last, I spurn the phantom Fear,
And dare to face your dread tribunal here.

No flowery sweets I bring though Summer reigns,
And flocks delighted rove through painted plains;
Though glittering brooks flow smooth, meandering by,
And larks soar warbling through the azure sky;
And meads and groves rejoice-to me unblest;
For oh! bleak Winter reigns within my breast:
Here whirls a storm, though hid from human sight,
Fiercer than winds that howl through gloomy night.

As griefs reveal'd are robbed of half their sting,
And seeming doubts when told oft take to wing,
Permit me here some miseries to unnest,

That long have harbour'd in my labouring breast.
Oft pale-eyed Poverty, in sullen state,

Stalks round and threatens to deform my fate;
Points to the future times, and grinning, says,

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Old Age and I shall curse thy evening days;

His shaking hand shall change thy locks to gray,
Thy head to baldness, and thy strength to clay;
Make thy sad horʼzon with dark tempests roll,
And lead me forward to complete the whole :
To count thy groans-to hear thee hopeless mourn,
And wave these trophies o'er thy closing urn.”

Then mad Ambition revels through my brain,
And restless bids me spurn life's grovelling plain;
Awake the Muse and soft enrapturing lyre,
To G-

-'s praise, our villa's friendly sire;
In glowing colours paint his rural seat,

Where songsters warble and where lambkins bleat;
Where groves and plains in sweet disorder lie,

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,
And bid fair Fancy's fields their sweets resume,
Would lift my heart light as the sweepy wind,
And deeper bind me your indebted friend.

When darkness reigns, or evening silence deep,
Some moments rescue from the jaws of sleep,
Bid your sweet Muse unfold her downy wings,
And teach a youth to touch the trembling strings;
Dispel his doubts, arouse his hovering flame,
And point the road that leads to bliss and fame.

First Epistle to Fr. James Dobie.

CLOSED in a garret spread wi' beuks,

Whare spider wabs in dozens,

Hing mirk athort the winnock neuks,
Maist dark'ning up the lozens;'
Through whilk the sin, wi' beams sae braw

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,
And a' his fancy fired;

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;
Life's bitter horn aside it coups,
And fills 't wi' cheering blue:
While chaunrin' critics girn and growl,
And curse whate'er they light on,
The honest, friendly, generous soul,
Can check, inspire, and brighten,

Wi' ease each day.

Yet some there are whase flinty hearts,
And hollow heads (poor wretches!)
Despise the poet's glorious parts,

And ca' them daudron b-ch-s.
Tell them a plan o' cent. per cent.,
They'll glut yer words like hinee;
But mention poetry, they'll gaunt
And gloom, as gin't war sinee,

Or salts, that day.

Anither set comes in my view,

Atrampin' Heaven's way in;

See! how they shake their leads, and groo
At ought but grace and prayin':
These godly fouks will tak' the qualms,

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 ilka herb is springing,

And birds on blossom'd branches clear,
Wi' lightsome hearts are singing;
How sweet to rove at early morn,

Whare dewy flowers are ranket,
While they wha sic enjoyments scorn,
Lie snorin' in a blanket,

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,
Sets ilka quill in order;

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