Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! 
     Your native soil was right ill-willie;
     But may ye flourish like a lily,
     Now bonilie! 
     I’ll toast you in my hindmost gillie,
     Tho’ owre the sea!

Song—­Farewell To Eliza

     Tune—­“Gilderoy.”

     From thee, Eliza, I must go,
     And from my native shore;
     The cruel fates between us throw
     A boundless ocean’s roar: 
     But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
     Between my love and me,
     They never, never can divide
     My heart and soul from thee.

     Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
     The maid that I adore! 
     A boding voice is in mine ear,
     We part to meet no more! 
     But the latest throb that leaves my heart,
     While Death stands victor by,—­
     That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
     And thine that latest sigh!

A Bard’s Epitaph

     Is there a whim-inspired fool,
     Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
     Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
     Let him draw near;
     And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
     And drap a tear.

     Is there a bard of rustic song,
     Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
     That weekly this area throng,
     O, pass not by! 
     But, with a frater-feeling strong,
     Here, heave a sigh.

     Is there a man, whose judgment clear
     Can others teach the course to steer,
     Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career,
     Wild as the wave,
     Here pause—­and, thro’ the starting tear,
     Survey this grave.

     The poor inhabitant below
     Was quick to learn the wise to know,
     And keenly felt the friendly glow,
     And softer flame;
     But thoughtless follies laid him low,
     And stain’d his name!

     Reader, attend! whether thy soul
     Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
     Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
     In low pursuit: 
     Know, prudent, cautious, self-control
     Is wisdom’s root.

     Epitaph For Robert Aiken, Esq.

     Know thou, O stranger to the fame
     Of this much lov’d, much honoured name! 
     (For none that knew him need be told)
     A warmer heart death ne’er made cold.

     Epitaph For Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

     The poor man weeps—­here Gavin sleeps,
     Whom canting wretches blam’d;
     But with such as he, where’er he be,
     May I be sav’d or damn’d!

Epitaph On “Wee Johnie”

     Hic Jacet wee Johnie.

     Whoe’er thou art, O reader, know
     That Death has murder’d Johnie;
     An’ here his body lies fu’ low;
     For saul he ne’er had ony.

The Lass O’ Ballochmyle