EPITAPHS, &c.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here souter **** in death does sleep;

To h-ll, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes :
O death, it's my opinion,

Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin b-tch
Into thy dark dominion!

ON WEE JOHNNY.

Hic jacet wee Johnnie.

WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know,

That death has murder'd Johnnie!

An' here his body lies fu' low

For saul he ne'er had ony.

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

'For ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."*

FOR R. A. ESQ.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

THE poor man weeps-here Gn sleeps,
Whom canting wretches blam'd:

But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or damn'd!

* Goldsmith.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame,

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control,
Is wisdom's root.

ON THE LATE

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

HEAR, Land O' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

1 rede you tent it:

A chield's amang you taking notes,

And, faith, he 'll prent it.

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,

O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.

Its ten to ane ye 'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor,

And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bes.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; But now he's quat the spurtle blade,

And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets :
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,"
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,

A towmont guid;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,

Weel shod wi' brass.

* Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons.