A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE I. O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause In whose dread presence, ere an hour, II. If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As something, loudly, in my breast, Remonstrates I have done; III. Thou know'st that thou hast formed me IV. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stept aside, Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide. V. Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. Again exalt the brute and sink the man; O thou, great Governor of all below! To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. I. O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above! II. The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, III. She, who her lovely offspring eyes VI. Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, V. The beauteous, seraph sister band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on every hand, Guide thou their steps alway! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, THE FIRST PSALM. THE man, in life wherever placed, Nor learns their guilty lore! Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt Before the sweeping blast. For why? that God the good adore Hath given them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest. A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee Thy creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul, Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act O free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race! Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! That power which raised and still upholds From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou givest the word: Thy creature, man, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou takest them off They flourish like the morning flower, But long ere night cut down it lies Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate of suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven, To misery's brink, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, He, ruin'd, sink! E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom! TO RUIN. I. ALL hail inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel wo-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain, A sullen welcome, all! With stern-resolved, despairing eye, I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then lowering, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head. II. And, thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, To close this scene of care! My weary heart its throbbing cease, TO MISS LI, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer heaven. No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Than just a kind memento; Let time and chance determine; Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye. III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; If self the wavering balance shake, IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek through every other man, The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, That's justified by honour; VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, Let that aye be your border; The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach So row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera diel, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Though owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, His knife see rustic labour dight, And then, O what a glorious sight, Then horn for horn they stretch an’strive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view Poor devil! see him owre his trash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha The poet, some guid angel help him, The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I readily and freely grant, But then, na thanks to him for a' that; It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, Your pardon, sir, for this digression, So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour, "May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark |