The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,

This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?

Another year is gone for ever.'

And what is this day's strong suggestion?
The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more ?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.

w

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends;
Let us the' important nog employ,
And live as those that never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

EXTEMPORE, on the late Mr. William Smellie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and Member of the Antiquarian and Royal Societies of Edinburgh.

To Crochallan came The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night, His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd,! A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd; Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,

His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

F 2

POETICAL INSCRIPTION

For an Altar to Independence, at Kerroughtry, the 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,
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.

SONNET OF THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ.

OF GLEN RIDDEL; APRIL, 1794.

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more,
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul:

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest

roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round the' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,
And sooth the Virtues weeping on this bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his narrow house' for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; Me, mem❜ry of my loss will only meet.

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 glistened!

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listened!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate,

Thou diedst unwept as thou livedst unlov'd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier.

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam thro' the forest for each idle weed;

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,

For none e'er approach'd her but ru'd the rash deed.

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 ire.

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.

ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the Windows, Carriages, &c. to each Farmer, ordering him to send a signed List of his Horses, Servants, Wheel-Carriages, &c., and whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, and what Children they had.

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list,
My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.