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LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,
OF WHITEFORD, BART.
LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF
Thou, who thy honour as thy God reverst,
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 rever pity soothe thee with a sigh,
The bitter little that of life remains;
No more the thick’ning 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 hapless
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING DIS BUST
HILE virgin Spring, by Eden's
Or tunes Eolian strains between :
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
The progress of the spiky blade :
By Tweed erects his aged head,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
Proclaims that THOMSON was her son,
FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. Oye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw year 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 failings lean’d to virtue's side.'*
FOR R. A. ESQ.
thou, O stranger to the faine
FOR G. H. ESQ.
poor man weeps-here G- en sleeps,
May I be sav'd or dd!
TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born September 5, 1751-Died October 16, 1774. No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompoas lay,
No storied urn, nor animated bust,' This simple stone directs poor Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.
TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,
A VERY YOUNG LADY.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE
SENTED TO HER BY TIE AUTHOR.
BEAUTIOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Thou amid the dirgeful sound,
And waste my soul with care ;
When fated to despair!
To hope may be forgiv'n;
So much in sight of Heav'n.
ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER
THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.
BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's.
thy tale, tbou idle page,
From Isabella's arms.
The morning rose may blow;
May lay its beauties low.
The sun propitious smil'd;
Succeeding hopes beguil’d.