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,

[roar. More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 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 song attend?

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

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

6

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 fir'd, 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, 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 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 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.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MRS. 'S BIRTH-DAY.

NOVEMBER 4, 1793.

OLD Winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd;
What have I done, of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!

That brilliant gift will so enrich me,

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me; 'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.

TO MISS JESSY L

DUMFRIES;

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.

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
Of 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.

SONNET,

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

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 blithe 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 Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with
thee I'll share.

EXTEMPORE, TO MR. S** E,

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, 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. S** E,

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 S**

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

e were fit.

POEM,

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel,

In my poor pouches.

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,

That one pound one, I sairly want it: