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And here forget he was design'd
To mortal tread earth's humble sphere
(Loved guardian of my rustic songs,
The stream or forest skip along.
Here, might misfortune find relief
From recollection's painful throes,
Might here attain enjoy'd repose.
The secrets of their blest abode,
Point to the great Rewarder-God.
BY JOHN CARNEGIE, ESQ.
Shall I forget Clyde's princely stream,
O stream, to fond remembrance dear,
Still fancy paints her last adieu,
That voice will never charm me more,
When ah ! return'd with fortune's store,
My love was gone, laid in hor tomb. Glasgow, 17th November, 1819.
ADDRESSED TO MISS M
Low sunk the sun to the bed of the ocean,
And light danc'd the breeze on the blue rolling wate. All nature was hush'd not the softest emotion,
Was heard to disturb the repose of the grave.
As cloudless she sails thro' the depths of the sky;:
And wails for poor Mary, who wanders to sigh.
Her eye, once as bright as the beam of the morning,
The chill blast of sorrow had dimmed with a tear ;
Seem'd pale as the lily, the last of the year:
By the dark lowering storm of misfortune laid low! In the grave of her sire, her latest hope perish's
And left her to mourn, the fair victim of woe..
The landscape grows dim and the moon is retiring,
To quench her pale gleam in the brine of the deep; As the last fading gleam of her lamp is expiring,
Poor Mary still lingers to wail and to weep.
And the last bursting throes of keen anguish depart; The cold damp of death o'er her bosom is stealing,
To freeze the warm blood, as it streams from her heart..
Oh! weep not, poor Mary, for soon shall thy sorrow,
To cheer thy sad bosom, no sun of to-morrow
Shall lend his bright beams, and enlighten the gloom : Oh! soon shall the dark-spreading cypress wave o'er thee!
And evening's mild eye drop its tears on thy breast; But oft shall the sigh of pure Friendship deplore thee, And the sweet tones of Pity shall hush thee to rest.
S. R. RUFUS. Old Kilpatrick, 9th Oct. 1819.
Let the Lily of France in luxuriance bloon,
To Scotia her Thistle,
• Twas the badge that our fathers triumphantly wore,
To Scotia her Thistle, &c.
It blooms on the mountain, it blooms in the vale,
To Scotia her Thistle, &c.
How many brave warriors our Thistle may clain,
We weep for our Moore, and exult in our Graeme,
To us the broad Thistle,
The broad waving Thistle must dearest remain: November 12th, 1819.
E J. D
Now June is present with her mantle gay,
Then from me inelancholy would be drove.
ON THE MARRIAGE OF MISS
Much meat doth gluttony procure, TO A GENTLEMAN OF THE NAME
To feed man fat as swine, OF GEE.
But he's a frugal man indeed,
That with a leaf can dine. Sure madam, by your choice your taste we
He needs no napkin for his hands, see.
His finger ends to wipe, What's good, or great, or grand, without That hath his kitchen in a box, a G.
His roast meat in a pipe.
(To Readers of Newspapers.)' And without G the Graces would run ra. Who is it, “ Gentle Reader,” who, ces.
That labours hard in pleasing you,
By telling all that's strange and new?
Who tells you of the affairs of state,
Whilst Lords and Commons legislata,
Aud spend their nights in warm debate? Our fortune we subdue,
Ye polititians, truly tell,
Who makes you understand so well,
The affairs on which you love to dwell? EPIGRAM
The Printer. On seing Mr Coward conducting the Duke of
Wellington through the streets of Bath, Then, in no case should you delay, on his grace's recent visit there.
(Though many do from day to day) Oh ! blush for shame, each warlike band,
With punctuality to pay
The Printer. And blush thou also, honest reader,The bravest Soldier in the land,
HONOUR. Has got a Coward for a leader!
Not all the threats, or favours of a crown W. R. T.
A prince's whisper, or a tyrant's frown, on Reading the above in the Bath Gazette. Can awe the spirit, or allure the mind, W. R. T. your remark is untoward- To honour's strict and noble laws inclined. Tis not the first time he followed a Coward. On higher springs, men of true honour
move, ON BEING MADE AN APRIL FOOL. Free is their service, and unbought their I pardon, Sir, the trick you play'd me,
love. When an April fool you made me,
When danger calls, and honour leads the Since I do only once appear,
way, What you alas! do all the year.
With joy they follow, and with pride obey.. ON A LADY WRITING.
HUMAN LIFE. Her even lines, her steady temper show,
Twist ye twist ye ever so, Neat as her dress, and polished as her brot; Mingle shades of human woe, Strong as her judgment, easy as her air,
Hope and fear, and peace and strife, Correct, though free, and regular, though Weave the thread of human life.
While the mystic twist is spinning, And the same graces o'er her pen preside,
And the infant life beginning, That form'd her manners and her footsteps Pimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo! what varied shapes attending!
Passions wild, and follies vain,
Pleasures, soon exchanged for pain, With glittering beams, and native glory Hope and fear, and peace and strife, bright,
Form the thread of human life!