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The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make:
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ;—
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my carės.

'Life's cares they are comforts "-a maxim laid down

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair;
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of care.

A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.

Young's Night Thoughts.

WRITTEN IN

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE.

ON NITH-SIDE.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.

;

As youth and love with sprightly dance Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air

May delude the thoughtless pair;
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale?
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold,

Soar around each cliffy hold,
While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.
As the shades of evening close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;

As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease.
There ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought;
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, man's true, genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not, Art thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span ?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on thy mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n,
To virtue or to vice is giv'n.
Say, to be just and kind, and wise,
There solid, self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways,
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep

To the bed of lasting sleep:

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.
Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide!
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side.

ODE.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS.

OF

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark!
Who in widow weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour'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, its 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.

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(Awhile forbear, ye torturing 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, hell-ward plies.

EPODE.

And are they of no more avail,

Ten thousand glittering pounds a year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n!
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.

ΤΟ

ROBERT GRAHAM, ES2.

OF FINTRA.

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :)
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail?
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade.
Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign!

Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
The' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell.-

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