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Now, wha this tale of truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed :
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o’er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST

SHOT AT.

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ;

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart !

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,

The bitter little of that life remains :
No more the thickening brakes and verdant

plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap

less fate.

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ADDRESS

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, en crowning his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire,

with bays.

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between :

While Summer with a matron grace

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade :

While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his-aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed :

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows :

So long, sweet Poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

EPITAPHS.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here sowter **** in death does sleep ;

To h-ll, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes :

O death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a blath'rin b-tch

Into thy dark dominion !

ON WEE JOHNNY.

Hic jacet wee Johnnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O, reader, know,

That death has murder'd Johnnie ! An' here his body lies fu' low

For saul he ne'er had ony.

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

“For ev'n his failing's lean'd toʻvirtue's side*."

* Goldsmith.

FOR R. A. ESQ.

Know thou, o stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

The poor man weeps-here G-n sleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam'd: But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or dmd!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near ;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh,

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, through the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit ; Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul

Is wisdom's root.

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE:S

Peregrinations thro' Scotland, collecting the

antiquities of that kingdom.

Hear, land o cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you, taking notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O'stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weelAnd wow! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin*,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
Its ten to ane ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, L-d safe's! colleaguin

At some black art.

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.

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