In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell! ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788 A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck! The Spanish empire's tint a head, But to the hen-birds unco civil; Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, Ye bonie lasses, dight your e'en, Observe the very nowt an' sheep, O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, Much specious lore, but little understoo Crochallan The old cock'd hat, the brown surtoutHis grisly beard just bristling in its mig "Twas four long nights and days from s' His uncomb'd, hoary locks, wild-staring A head, for thought profound and clear Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting-rud His heart was warm, benevolent and g O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce ex Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid bear If mantling high she fills the golden cu With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they we They only wonder "some folks" do no The grave, sage hern thus easy picks hi And thinks the mallard a sad worthless When disappointment snaps the thread When, thro' disastrous night, they dark With deaf endurance sluggishly they b And just conclude that "fools are Fortu So, heavy, passive to the tempest's sho Strong on the sign-post stands the stup Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap trai Not such the workings of their moon-s Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as you can. ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST Chorus.-Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him. Fient a heuk had I, I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden, At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Robin: Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, An' me the El'er's dochter! Robin shure, &c. Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle; Guse-feathers and a whittle! THE HENPECKED HUSBAND January, 1, 1789. CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life, Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS His face with smile eternal drest, He looked just as your sign-post Lions do, A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, It shews a human face, and wears a wig, ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, STROPHE View the wither'd Beldam's face; Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace? Pity's flood there never rose, See these hands ne'er stretched to save, Hands that took, but never gave: Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest! |