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, As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning star advance, Pleasure with her siren air May delude the thoughtless pair'; 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, On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; Thus resign'd and quiet, creep Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 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, 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, Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 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, O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 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, His soul was like the glorious sun, O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! 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, Where, haply, pity strays forlorn, 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! Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; 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, |