But as for thee, thou false woman, Grim vengance, yet, shall whet a sword. The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars. And may those pleasures gild thy reign, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O! soon, to me, may summer suns, Let winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave ! .. TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. OF FINTRA. LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; The lion and the bull thy care have found, Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, spear and darts. But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard! A thing unteachable in world's skill, Critics-appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage! So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, O dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder, 'some folks' do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that fools are fortune's care.' So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, ✪! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! Give energy to life; and sooth his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death! LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. THE wind blew hollow frae the hills, Look'd on the fading yellow woods That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream; Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears! And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang, |