“Here this night if ye remain”—­
     “I’ll remain,” quo’ Findlay;
     “I dread ye’ll learn the gate again;”
     “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay. 
     “What may pass within this bower”—­
     “Let it pass,” quo’ Findlay;
     “Ye maun conceal till your last hour:” 
     “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.

1784

Remorse:  A Fragment

     Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
     That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish
     Beyond comparison the worst are those
     By our own folly, or our guilt brought on: 
     In ev’ry other circumstance, the mind
     Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:” 
     But, when to all the evil of misfortune
     This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!”
     Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse,
     The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—­
     Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involved others,
     The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us;
     Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin! 
     O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
     There’s not a keener lash! 
     Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
     Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
     Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
     And, after proper purpose of amendment,
     Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
     O happy, happy, enviable man! 
     O glorious magnanimity of soul!

Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton

     Here Souter Hood in death does sleep;
     To hell if he’s gane thither,
     Satan, gie him thy gear to keep;
     He’ll haud it weel thegither.

Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton

     Here lies Boghead amang the dead
     In hopes to get salvation;
     But if such as he in Heav’n may be,
     Then welcome, hail! damnation.

Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill

     An honest man here lies at rest
     As e’er God with his image blest;
     The friend of man, the friend of truth,
     The friend of age, and guide of youth: 
     Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d,
     Few heads with knowledge so informed: 
     If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
     If there is none, he made the best of this.

Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father

     O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
     Draw near with pious rev’rence, and attend! 
     Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,
     The tender father, and the gen’rous friend;
     The pitying heart that felt for human woe,
     The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride;
     The friend of man—­to vice alone a foe;
     For “ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side."^1