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So, by fome hedge, the gen'rous fteed de

ceas'd.

For half-ftarv'd fnarling curs a dainty feaft; By toil and famine wore to fkin and bone, Lies, fenfeless of each tugging bitch's fon.

O Dulness portion of the truly bleft!
Calm fhelter'd haven of eternal reft!

Thy fons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar froft, or torrid beams.
If mantling high fhe fills the golden cup,
With fober selfish ease they fip it up:

Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,

They only wonder "fome folks" do not starve. The grave fage hern thus eafy picks his frog, And thinks the Mallard a fad worthless dog. When disappointment fnaps the clue of hope, And thro' difaftrous night they darkling grope,

With

With deaf endurance fluggishly they bear,

And juft conclude that "fools are fortune's

care."

So, heavy, paffive to the tempeft's fhocks, Strong on the fign-poft ftands the ftupid ox.

Not fo the idle Mufes' mad-cap train, Not fuch the workings of their moon-ftruck brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,

But turns in foaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and fevere, With all a poet's, hufband's, father's fear! Already one ftrong hold of hope is loft, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in duft ; (Fled, like the fun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O hear my ardent, grateful, felfish pray'r! F*****, my other ftay, long blefs and spare! Thro'

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Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his fun go down! May blifs domeftic fmooth his private path; Give energy to life; and foothe his latest breath,

With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

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LA MENT

FOR

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the fun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:

Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,

In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom death had all untimely taen.

He

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whofe trunk was mould'ring down with

years;

His locks were bleached white with time,
His hoary cheeck was wet wi' tears;
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful fang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye fcatter'd birds that faintly fing, "The reliques of the vernal quire! "Ye woods that shed on a' the winds "The honours of the aged year!

"A few fhort months, and glad and gay,

66

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e ;

"But nocht in all revolving time

"Can gladness bring again to me.

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