If ony whiggish whingin fot, To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and forrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare man. LAMENT MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now OW Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree. And spreads her sheets o' daifies white Out o'er the graffy lea: Now Phoebus chears the cryftal ftreams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That faft in durance lies. Now laverocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bower, Makes woodland echoes ring; In love and freedom they rejoice, Now blooms the lily by the bank, The hawthorns budding in the glen, The meaneft hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prifon strang. I was the Queen o' bonie France, But as for thee, thou false woman, Grim vengeance, yet, fhall whet a fword The weeping blood in woman's breaft Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe My fon! my fon! may kinder ftars And may thofe pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine! And where thou meet'f thy mother's friend, O foon, to me, may fummer funs And in the narrow houfe o' death Let winter round me rave; And the next flowers, that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave. то ŔG OF F EsQ: LATE Cr ATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, liftlefs, teafed, dejected, and depreft, (Nature is adverse to a criple's reft); Will generous G***** lift to his Poet's wail? (It foothes poor Mifery, hearkening to her tale), And hear him curfe the light he first surveyed, 1 And doubly curfe the lucklefs rhyming trade. |