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'Thou whom chance may hither lead,
Life is but a day at most,
As youth and love with sprightly dance,
As thy day grows warm and high,
As the shades of ev'ning 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 routch
Thus resign'd'and quiet, creep
Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide ! Quod the beadsman of Nith-side.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
View the wither'd beldam's face
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.
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 mockery of the pompous bier, While down the wretched vital part is drivin! The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n.
ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,
A gentleman who held the patent for his honou's
immediately from Almighty God!
But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright; His soul was like the glorious sun,
And matchless Heav'nly Light!
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O'er hureheon hides,
Wi' thy auld sides !
He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn,
By wood and wild,
Frae man exil'd.
Ye hills, near neebors of 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 !
Wi' toddiin din,
rae to lin.
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee;
In scented bow'rs;
The first o’ flow'rs.
At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed,
I'th' rustling gale, Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade,
Come join my wail.
Mourn, ye wee songsters o'the wood; Ye grouss that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ;
Ye whistling plover ; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood;
He's gane for ever!
Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels
Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, 'till the quagmire reels,
Rair for his sake.
Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 'Mang fields o’ flow'ring clover gay ; And when ye wing your annual way
Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay,
Wham we deplore.
Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r,
Sets up her horn,
'Till waukrife morn!