INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 17)5

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.

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;

How doubly severer, Maria, 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 Maria's cold bier.

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower,
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,

For none e'er approach'd her but rued 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 irc.

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!
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 th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

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

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

IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY,
NOVEMBER 4, 1793.

TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES,

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. [JUNE 26TH, 1796.]

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer-
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Or 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.

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,
And cook'ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.

TO MR. SYME,

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
"Twere drink for first of human kind,

A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

SONNET,

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR.

SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

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. [DECEMBER, 1795.]

POEM ON LIFE,

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL De peyster, DUMFRIES, 1796.