Rest on—­for what? what do we here? 
     Or why regard the passing year? 
     Will Time, amus’d with proverb’d lore,
     Add to our date one minute more? 
     A few days may—­a few years must—­
     Repose us in the silent dust. 
     Then, is it wise to damp our bliss? 
     Yes—­all such reasonings are amiss! 
     The voice of Nature loudly cries,
     And many a message from the skies,
     That something in us never dies: 
     That on his frail, uncertain state,
     Hang matters of eternal weight: 
     That future life in worlds unknown
     Must take its hue from this alone;
     Whether as heavenly glory bright,
     Or dark as Misery’s woeful night.

     Since then, my honour’d first of friends,
     On this poor being all depends,
     Let us th’ important now employ,
     And live as those who never die. 
     Tho’ you, with days and honours crown’d,
     Witness that filial circle round,
     (A sight life’s sorrows to repulse,
     A sight pale Envy to convulse),
     Others now claim your chief regard;
     Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

Scots’ Prologue For Mr. Sutherland

     On his Benefit-Night, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

     What needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on,
     How this new play an’ that new sang is comin? 
     Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? 
     Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported? 
     Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
     Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? 
     For Comedy abroad he need to toil,
     A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
     Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece,
     To gather matter for a serious piece;
     There’s themes enow in Caledonian story,
     Would shew the Tragic Muse in a’ her glory.—­

     Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell
     How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 
     Where are the Muses fled that could produce
     A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce? 
     How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword
     ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord;
     And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
     Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! 
     O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene,
     To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! 
     Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms
     ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms: 
     She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
     To glut that direst foe—­a vengeful woman;
     A woman, (tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil,)
     As able and as wicked as the Devil! 
     One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page,
     But Douglasses were heroes every age: 
     And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life,
     A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
     Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
     Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!