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ON THE

DEATH OF A LAP-DOG NAMED ECHO.

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

SONG.

Tune, I am a man unmarried."*

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass,

Ay, and I love her still,

And whilst that virtue warms my breast

I'll love my handsome Nell.

Tal lal de ral, &c.

As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
And mony full as braw,
But for a modest gracefu' mien

'The like I never saw.

This was our Poet's first attempt.

A bonnie lass, I will confess,
Is pleasant to the e'e,

But without some better qualities
She's no a lass for me.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet, And what is best of a',

Her reputation is complete,

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She dresses ay sae clean and neat,

Both decent and genteel;

And then there's something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.

"Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

Tal lal de ral, &c.

C c 2

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET,

Born September 5th, 1751-Died 16th October, 1774.

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
"No storied urn nor animated bust,"
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, {vale: The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morn

ing,

[dale: And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,

Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, A king and a father to place on his throne? His right are these hills and his right are these valleys, [none. Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn: Your deeds prove so loyal in hot bloody trial, Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ.

WHEN Nature her great master-piece design'd, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye, intent on all the mazy plan,

She form'd of various parts the various man.

Then first she calls the useful many forth;
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth:
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth:
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are needful to the net!
The caput mortuum of gross desires

Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough,

Then marks the'unyielding mass with grave designs,
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines;
Last, she sublimes the' Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.

The order'd system fair before her stood,
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounced it very good;
But ere she gave creating labour o’er,
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more.

Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter;
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;
With arch alacrity and conscious glee
(Nature may have her whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it)
She forms the thing, and christens it—a poet.
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow.
A being form'd to' amuse his graver friends,
Admir'd and prais’d—and there the homage ends
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife,
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live:
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work.
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard tree to find;

And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attach'd him to the generous truly great,

A title, and the only one I claim,

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train,
Weak, timid landmen on Life's stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff,
That never gives-tho' humbly takes enough;
The little fate allows, they share as soon,

Unlike sage, proverb'd, Wisdom's hard-wrung boon.
The world were blest did bliss on them depend,
Ab, that the friendly e'er should want a friend!'

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