To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
     So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
     But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame,
     Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

     A bard was selected to witness the fray,
     And tell future ages the feats of the day;
     A Bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
     And wish’d that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

     The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
     And ev’ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
     In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
     And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

     Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o’er: 
     Bright Phoebus ne’er witness’d so joyous a core,
     And vow’d that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
     Till Cynthia hinted he’d see them next morn.

     Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
     When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
     Turn’d o’er in one bumper a bottle of red,
     And swore ’twas the way that their ancestor did.

     Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
     No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
     A high Ruling Elder to wallow in wine;
     He left the foul business to folks less divine.

     The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
     But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend! 
     Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;
     So uprose bright Phoebus—­and down fell the knight.

     Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:—­
     “Craigdarroch, thou’lt soar when creation shall sink! 
     But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
     Come—­one bottle more—­and have at the sublime!

     “Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
     Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: 
     So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;
     The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!”

To Mary In Heaven

     Thou ling’ring star, with lessening ray,
     That lov’st to greet the early morn,
     Again thou usher’st in the day
     My Mary from my soul was torn. 
     O Mary! dear departed shade! 
     Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
     See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
     Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

     That sacred hour can I forget,
     Can I forget the hallow’d grove,
     Where, by the winding Ayr, we met,
     To live one day of parting love! 
     Eternity will not efface
     Those records dear of transports past,
     Thy image at our last embrace,
     Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!