INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERroughtry, sEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795 THOU of an independent mind, With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, Virtue alone who dost revere, Thy own reproach alone dost fear, Approach this shrine, and worship here. MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, THE EPITAPH. HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem. SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL. April, 1794. No more ye warblers of the wood-no more! How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet ; IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY, OLD Winter with his frosty beard, To counterbalance all this evil; me; "Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, And wakeful caution still aware AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 17th December, 1795. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, TO MR. SYME, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind, SONNET, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R. B. AGED 34. SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel O what a canty warld were it, And fortune favour worth and merit, As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ; Syne wha wad starve ?) Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her. And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker I've found her still, Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Syne, whip his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire. Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair, First shewing us the tempting ware, Bright wines and bonie lasses rare, To put us daft; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by, Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels-o'er-gowdy! in he gangs, And murd'ring wrestle, But lest you think I am uncivil, I quat my pen : |