We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here vanity strums on her idiot lyre;

There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his lyre.

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.

IMPROMPTU,

On Mrs. -'s Birth-day, 4th Nov. 1793.

OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,

Thus once to Jove his pray'r preferr'd;
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow:
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

Now Jove, for once he mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,

Give me Maria's natal day!

That brilliant gift will so enrich me,

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me. 'Tis done!' says Jove; so ends my story,

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.

TO MY DEAR AND MUCH-HONOURED FRIEND,
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

ON SENSIBALİTY.

1222NN

SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well.
Fairest flow'r, behold the lily,
Blooming in the summer ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure

Finer feelings can bestow;

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

POEM ON LIFE.

ADDRESSED TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES.

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel

Your int❜rest in the poet's weal:
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ;
And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve:

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;

Syne wha would starve?)

Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste and frippery deck her,
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker,

I've found her still;

Ay, wavering, like a willow wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a clute on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's off like fire.

Ah! Nick, ah! Nick, it is nae fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,

To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen thy spider snare

O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzies bye,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy

And hellish pleasure

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he bangs,
And like a sheep-head on the tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murd'ring wrestle,

As dangling in the wind he hangs

A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,

Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the devil!

Amen! amen!

POETICAL INSCRIPTION

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE,
At Kerrouchtry, the seat of Mr. Heron.
Written in Summer, 1795.

THOU, of an independent mind,

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
Prepar'd Pow'r's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave:

Virtue alone who dost revere,

Thy own reproach alone dost fear,

Approach this shrine, and worship here.

TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY L

DUMFRIES,

WITH BOOKS THAT THE BARD PRESENTED HER.

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's pray'r;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindness best presage,
Of future bliss, enrol thy name
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution, still aware,
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare ;

All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRA,

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

I CALL no goodness to inspire my strains,

A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night,
If ought that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tow'r,

Where the wa'-flow'r scents the dewy air,
Where th' hou!et mourns in her ivy bow'r,
And tells the moon her midnight care :

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;