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WELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark !
Who in widow weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noofing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!

STROPHE.

View the 'wither'd beldam's face,
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of Humanity's sweet melting grace ?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o`erflows,
Pity's food there never rose.
See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
Hands that took

but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon's iron chelt,
Lc, there she goes, unpitied and unbleft,
She goes, but not to realins of everlasting rest!

ANTISTROPHE.

Planterer of Armies, lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends), Seeft thou whose ftep, unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurld from upper skics; 'Tis thy trusty quondam Matr, Doomed to share thy fiery fate, She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

E POD E.

And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittering pounds a year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here? O, bitter mockery of the poinpous bier, While down the wretched vital part is driven ! The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rage, unknown, and goes to Heaven.

E L E G

Y,

Ο Ν

CAPT,

MH

A Gentleman who held the Patent for his Honours

immediately from Almighty God!

But now his , adiant course is run,

For Matthew's course was bright;
His Coul was like the glorious sur,

A matchless Heavenly Light !

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
'I he meikle devil wi' a woodie
Hauri thee hame to his black fmiddie,

O'er hurcheon hides, And like flock-fish come o'er his studdie

Wilthy auld fides !

He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn,
The ae best fellow e'er was born !
Thee, Matthew, Nature's fel shall mourn

By wood and wild,
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn,

Frae man exil'd,

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, That proudly cock your cresting cairns ; Ye cliffs, the haunts of failing yearns,

Where Echo flumbers. Come join, ye Nature's flurdieft bairns,

My wailing numbers.

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ;
Ye hazly shaws and briery dens ;
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens,

Wi' toddlin din,
Or foaming, ftrang, wi' hasty ftens,

Trae lin to lin.

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee;
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,

In scented bowers ;
Ye rofes on your thorny tree,

The first o' flowers.

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