« iepriekšējāTurpināt »
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er !
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
To mis’ry's brink,
He, ruin’d, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom!
ALL hail! inexorable lord !
The mightiest empires fall!
A sullen welcome, all!
I see each aimed dart;
The storm no more I dread;
Round my devoted head.
And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
To close this scene of care !
Resign life's joyless day;
To stain my lifeless face;
Within thy cold embrace !
TO MISS LOGAN,
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT,
JANUARY 1, 1787.
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail ;
In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
An Edwin still to you!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Than just a kind memento;
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my ląd,
And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
Ev’n when your end's attained;
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real harden’d wicked,
Are to a few restricked:
And little to be trusted;
It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we shouldna censure,
They equally may answer;
Tho'poortith hourly stare him;
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff han’ your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Frae critical dissection;
Wi’ sharpen'd, slee inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
Tho' naetbing should divulge it;
The hazard o' concealing; But och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling !
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justified by honour; Not for to bide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.