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LAMENT FOR THE PREMATURE AND SUDDEN DEATH OF R. T.,

Supposed to be written while standing over his Grave in Lennel Churchyard, Coldstream.

ERE now in lonely sorrow let me mourn,
A friend and brother from my bosom torn.
O hallowed bliss, to me for ever past,
Ecstatic joy, too exquisite to last.
What e'er can soothe my anguish, and impart
Life's former sunshine to the blighted heart?
How short and fleeting all that life supplies!
"He builds too low who builds beneath the skies."
Mute now the tongue which but so lately charmed
And paralyzed the heart affection warmed.
Those eyes which flashed with intellectual light,
How sightless now, and closed in endless night!
A father's tears may cease for him to flow,
Time neutralize a weeping brother's woe;
A sobbing sister may forget her sigh;
Joy yet illume the promised fair one's eye;
But lonely Friendship ever must deplore
A loss in him, the world can ne'er restore.
No feigned affliction pours her sorrows here;
A bosom mourns o'er all it once held dear.

Years may roll on, but to increase my woe,
As streams enlarge and deepen as they flow.

However o'er life's stormy billows tossed,

His worth I'll homage till the ocean's crossed.
O as I view again his narrow cell,

How sighs the heart the long-the last farewell!

TO THE MEMORY OF AN OLD FRIEND.

Written on the discovery of her Burial-Place in
Lennel Churchyard, Coldstream.

ND oh is such her sacred spot of rest!

Rank waves the grass, and wild the nettle

grows:

No stone records the memory of the blessed,
Nor where her sainted ashes now repose.
Obscure in life, as in the grave obscure,
Alone the vale of poverty she trod-
Her only stay and refuge was her God,
Who gave her at the cross an earnest sure:
Her all through it for ever was secure—

The wish supreme and purpose of her soul.

Friend of my earlier and my happier years,
O can I e'er forget her Christian worth?
Her love, her care and kindness, hopes and fears
Regarding me, what words can shadow forth?

But treasured all and hallowed in the heart,
As jewels fondly cherished are they there
With all the keenness of the miser's care,
And all the reverence of the filial part
From native gratitude; and O the smart
Which

wrung this bosom as we took farewell!

To me indeed how trying was that hour!
But why the dead in Jesus hopeless mourn?
All hail, Religion's sorrow! soothing power-
Faith fond anticipates her sure return,
And nature proves and pledges it to all:
Yes, soon to life and glory must she wake-
Like the bright butterfly the tomb forsake.
From every stain and imperfection free,
With all the faithful in the grave that be-
Then shall we meet-but meet to part no more.

TALE OF A BARBER.

KIR, give attention to my wondrous tale;
To tickle and amuse it cannot fail.
But pity him whose weakness you shall see
With mercy treated to the last degree,
Throughout the sequel of this truthful story,
About a Barber, and his way to glory.

Long had he mowed the chin and cropped the hair,
And dressed the wig and ringlets of the fair;

But scant the beards grew, by his vote to those
Whom common sense has stamped as common foes.
While for the vote some said this man of
soap
Received the price of many a hairy crop;
And now, in spite of Fortune and of Fame,
Of sullied honour and an honest name,
Aspiring still, determined yet to try
Some other shift when passed the clamour by.
His son, a genius wonderful, profound,
Whose powers astonished all the country round,
He sent for three months to a neighbouring town,
To test his talents and belie the clown;

For some him measured by this ancient rule-
His father's silly, "Dick" must be a fool;
And I for one, I frankly must confess,
No head e'er saw to warrant his success,

For by phrenology it was too plain

The fellow wanted full three-fourths of brain.

The fact to prove, home came ere three months run,

A bungling souter, as the Barber's son.

The hair-brained shaver thought this botch complete,
And took for talent empty self-conceit;

Then by he threw the razor and the pan,
Swearing he ne'er would shave another man;
And now at last two blockheads did unite,

Who scarcely knew their left hand from their right,
To murder hides, in "brogues" to push a trade,
Which oft have cursed the hands that had them made.

Still Fortune on these humbugs seemed to flow,
For many did their patronage bestow,
Forgetting merit, and to justice blind,
Gulled by the "hand-wailed," silly of mankind.
Yet Mr Clutchall would not be content,
But still on novelty his mind was bent.
Another change this brainless dupe desired,
Though void of every quality required,
Yet thought himself a nonsuch, and complete
For anything by blasting self-conceit,
At last he dreamed a fountain opened wide
To slake his selfish thirst, and aid his pride;
For now a Lord, of ancestors renowned
In Scotia's tale, for martial deeds profound,
A butler wanted, qualified and skilled,
And none but adepts proffers were to yield;
Yet he resolved an offer, too, to make,
For hell he'd ransack for a butler's sake.
Presumptuous model, ignorant and blind,
With shallow reason, and benighted mind,
Long known to many as a standing fool,
The public's jest, and of their sport the tool;
That he was fit, or any way endowed
In soul or body, never one allowed;

But in the face of all these truths declared,
This sneaking and audacious ninny dared,
With face unblushing, made of triple brass,
To push his frenzy more to prove the ass.
And having kissed his "rib" at eight that morn,
Who blushed consent, then quick he did adorn

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