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 ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.

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 wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,
Evils lurk in felon wait :
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,
Soar around each cliffy hold,
While chearful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.

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
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 inind,
As thuu 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 seļf-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.

منسم

Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide ! Quod 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 face
Oin thy keen inspection trace
Atght 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 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.

ELEGY

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!
The meikle devil wi' a woodie
Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

O'er hureheon 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 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 !
Ye hazly shaws and briery dens !
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,

Wi' toddiin din,
Or foaming, strang, wi' hasty stens,

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, 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,
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r,
What time the moon, wi' silent glowr,

Sets up her horn,
Wal thro' the dreary midnight hour

'Till waukrife morn!