WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,

ON NITH-SIDE.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,

Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deckt 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 lower.

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 would'st 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 owly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-neuk 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 their 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 Qued 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 unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!

STROPHE.

View the wither'd beldam's faceCan 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.

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,

(A while forbear, ye tort'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, hell-ward 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 driv'n!
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.

ELEGY

ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE FATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD!

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;

His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless, Heav'nly Light!

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides,

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born!
Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn
By wood and wild,

Where, haply, pity strays forlorn,
Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns! Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers !

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens !
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,
Wi' toddlin din,

Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin.

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie

In scented bow'rs;

Ye roses on your thorny tree,

The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head,