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; 214 A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. 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; THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. 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 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, O! hear a wretch's prayer! To close this scene of care! Resign life's joyless day; My weary heart its throbbing cease, No fear more, no tear more, TO MISS L—, 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, 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'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked: But och mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. 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; IX. 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, Be complaisance extended; An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! Wi' his proud, independent stomacn 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, Poor devil! see him owre his trash, O how unfit! 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 graces, 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, For prayin I hae little skill o't; |