THE EPІТАРН.

STOP, passenger! my story's brief;
And truth I shall relate, man;

I tell nae common tale o' grief,

For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man;

A look of pity hither cast,

For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art,

That passest by this grave, man, There moulders here a gallant heart; For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man; Here lies wha weel had won thy praise,

For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca'
Wad life itself resign, man;
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa',
For Matthew was a kind man !

If thou art staunch without a stain,
Like the unchanging blue, man,
This was a kinsman o' thy ain,
For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire,
And ne'er guid wine did fear, man;
This was thy billie, dam, and sire,
For Matthew was a queer man.

If ony whiggish whingin sot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and sorrow be his lot,

For Matthew was a rare man,

LAMENT

LAMENT

OF

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE

APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:

In love and freedom they rejoice,

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. AME

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:

The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en:

And

And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there:
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That thro' thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe
Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!