MONODY ON A LADY.

187

EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, AU-
THOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS-
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN
AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH.

SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan1 came,
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might;
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night;
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd
A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd:
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,

His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPEND
ENCE, AT KERROUGHTRY, SEAT OF MR.
HERON; WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795.

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 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.

1 There was a club in Edinburgh-the Crochallan Fencibles-of which Burns and Smellie were members.

The lady was the Mrs. Riddel, whose name so often occurs in the Poet's history.

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.

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?

The strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Ridde! lies.

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

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

EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME.

IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'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,

189

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me. 'Tis done! says Jove; so ends my story,

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.

TO MISS JESSY LEWARS,

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.

EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, ON REFUSING TO
DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING BEEN PRO-
MISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY AND THE
FIRST OF COOKERY, DECEMBER 17TH, 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; WRITTEN JANUARY 25TH,
1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R. B.,
AGED 34.

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.

POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLEC
TOR 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.

191

APOLOGY TO An offended friend.

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it:

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,'
I'd bear 't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin

To thee and thine;

Domestic peace and comforts crowning

The hale design.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by fell Death was nearly nicket:
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,'

And sair me sheuk;

But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't
A tentier way:

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't.
For ance and aye.

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way

The fumes of wine infuriate send;

(Not moony madness more astray;)

Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Beat.

Waistcoat.

Wiser.