Alas! nor nymphs nor heavenly songs delight-
Farewell, ye groves! the groves no more invite.
No pains, no miseries of man can move
The unrelenting deity of love.
To quench your thirst in Hebrus' frozen flood,
To make the scythian snows your drear abode ;
Or feed your flock on Ethiopian plains,
When Sirius' fiery constellation reigns,
(When deep-imbrown'd the languid herbage lies,
And in the elm the vivid verdure dies)
Were all in vain. Love's unresisted sway
Extends to all, and we must love obey."
'Tis done; ye Nine, here ends your poet's strain
In pity sung to soothe his Gallus' pain.
While leaning on a flowery bank I twine
The flexile osiers, and the basket join.
Celestial Nine, your sacred influence bring,
And soothe my Gallus' sorrows while I sing :
Gallus, my much belov'd! for whom I feel
The flame of purest friendship rising still:
So by a brook the verdant alders rise,
When fostering zephyrs fan the vernal skies.
Let us begone: at eve, the shade annoys With noxious damps, and hurts the singer's voice; The juniper breathes bitter vapours round, That kill the springing corn, and blast the ground. Homeward, my sated goats, now let us hie; Lo beamy Hesper gilds the western sky.
EPITAPH FOR A SHERIFF'S MESSENGER;
WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED AT THE PARTICULAR DESIRE OF
THE PERSON FOR WHOM IT IS INTENDED.
ALAS, how empty all our worldly schemes;
Vain are our wishes, our enjoyment dreams.
A debt to nature one and all must pay,
Nor will the creditor defer her day;
Death comes a messenger, displays the writ,
And to the fatal summons all submit.
An earthly messenger I was of yore,
The Scourge of debtors then, but now-no more.
Oft have I stood in all my pomp confess'd,
The blazon beaming dreadful at my breast;
Oft have I wav'd on high th' attractive rod,
And made the wretch obsequious to my nod.
Pale shivering Poverty, that stalk'd behind,
His greasy rags loose fluttering in the wind,
And Terror, cudgel-arm'd, that strode before,
Still to my deeds unquestion'd witness bore.
Dire execution, as I march'd, was spread;
My threat'ning horn they heard—they heard and
fled.
While thus destruction mark'd my headlong course,
Nor mortals durst oppose my matchless force,
A deadly warrant from the court of heaven
To Death, the sovereign messenger, was given.
Swift as the lightning's instantaneous flame,
Arm'd with his dart, the king of catchpoles came.
My heart, unmov'd before, was seiz'd with fear,
And sunk beneath his all-subduing spear;
To heaven's high bar the spirit wing'd its way,
And left the carcass forfeit to the clay.
Reader! though every ill beset thee round,
With patience bear, nor servilely despond;
Though heaven awhile delay th' impending blow,
Heaven sees the sorrows of the world below,
And sets at last the suffering mourner free
From famine, misery, pestilence, and ME.
June 28th, 1759.
TO MR. ALEXANDER ROSS,
AT LOCHLEE, AUTHOR OF THE FORTUNATE SHEPHERDESS AND OTHER POEMS IN THE BROAD SCOTCH DIALECT.
O Ross, thou wale of hearty cocks,
Sae crouse and canty with thy jokes!
Thy hamely auldwarl'd muse provokes
Me for awhile
To ape our guid plain countra' folks
In verse and stile.
Sure never carle was haff sae gabby
E're since the winsome days o' Habby:
O mayst thou ne'er gang, clung, or shabby, Nor miss thy snaker!
Or I'll ca' fortune nasty drabby,
And say-pox take her!
0 may the roupe ne'er roust thy weason, May thirst thy thrapple never gizzen! But bottled ale in mony a dizzen,
Aye lade thy gantry!
And fouth o'vivres a' in season,
Plenish thy pantry!
Lang may thy stevin fill wi' glee
The glens and mountains of Lochlee,
Which were right gowsty but for thee,
Whase sangs enamour
Ilk lass, and teach wi' melody
The rocks to yamour.
Ye shak your head, but, o' my fegs,
Ye've set old Scota1 on her legs,
Lang had she lyen wi' beffs and flegs,
Bumbaz'd and dizzie;
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,
Waes me! poor hizzie !
Since Allan's death naebody car'd
For anes to speer how Scota far'd,
1 The name Ross gives to his muse.
Nor plack nor thristled turner war'd
To quench her drouth;
For frae the cottar to the laird
We a' rin South.
The Southland chiels indeed hae mettle,
And brawly at a sang can ettle,
Yet we right couthily might settle
O' this side Forth.
The devil pay them wi' a pettle
That slight the North.
Our countra leed is far frae barren,
It's even right pithy and aulfarren,
Oursells are neiper-like, I warran,
For sense and smergh;
In kittle times when faes are yarring,
We're no thought ergh.
Oh! bonny are our greensward hows,
Where through the birks the birny rows,
And the bee bums, and the ox lows,
And saft winds rusle;
And shepherd lads on sunny knows
Blaw the blythe fusle.
It's true, we Norlans manna fa'
To eat sae nice or gang sae bra',
As they that come from far awa,
Yet sma's our skaith;
We've peace (and that's well worth it a') And meat and claith.
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