THE FIRST PSALM. THE man, in life wherever plac'd, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor from the seat of scornful pride That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt And like the rootless stubble tost For-why that God the good adore A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF O THOU great Being! what Thou art Yet sure I am, that known to Thee Thy creature here before Thee stands, Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 1Ο 20 The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth Psalm. 217 Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act O free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death! But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves ΙΟ THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, Before this ponderous globe itself Arose at Thy command; That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, 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 Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man, Again Thou say'st, 'Ye sons of men, 10 20 Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE- THOU's welcome, wean! mishanter fa' me, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me Wee image of my bonnie Betty, As a' the priests had seen me get thee What tho' they ca' me fornicator, An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter Welcome, my bonnie, sweet wee dochter- Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for! 10 20 Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux. 219 Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, Which fools may scoff at; An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee, Tho' I should be the waur bested, As ony brat o' wedlock's bed In a' thy station. Gude grant that thou may aye inherit "Twill please me mair to see and hear o't, 30 40 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him, Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, But tell him he was learn'd and clark, ΙΟ A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration, Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye, This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, The Poet, some guid angel help him, 10 20 |