So, by some hedge, the gen’rous steed deceas’d,
     For half-starv’d snarling curs a dainty feast;
     By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
     Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son.

     O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! 
     Calm shelter’d haven of eternal rest! 
     Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes
     Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams. 
     If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
     With sober selfish ease they sip it up;
     Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
     They only wonder “some folks” do not starve. 
     The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
     And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
     When disappointments snaps the clue of hope,
     And thro’ disastrous night they darkling grope,
     With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
     And just conclude that “fools are fortune’s care.” 
     So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks,
     Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

     Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train,
     Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;
     In equanimity they never dwell,
     By turns in soaring heav’n, or vaulted hell.

     I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
     With all a poet’s, husband’s, father’s fear! 
     Already one strong hold of hope is lost—­
     Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust
     (Fled, like the sun eclips’d as noon appears,
     And left us darkling in a world of tears);
     O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray’r! 
     Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! 
     Thro’ a long life his hopes and wishes crown,
     And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
     May bliss domestic smooth his private path;
     Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,
     With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

The Song Of Death

     Tune—­“Oran an aoig.”

     Scene—­A Field of Battle.  Time of the day—­evening.  The wounded
     and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the
     following song.

     Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
     Now gay with the broad setting sun;
     Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
     Our race of existence is run! 
     Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life’s gloomy foe! 
     Go, frighten the coward and slave;
     Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
     No terrors hast thou to the brave!

     Thou strik’st the dull peasant—­he sinks in the dark,
     Nor saves e’en the wreck of a name;
     Thou strik’st the young hero—­a glorious mark;
     He falls in the blaze of his fame! 
     In the field of proud honour—­our swords in our hands,
     Our King and our country to save;
     While victory shines on Life’s last ebbing sands,—­
     O! who would not die with the brave!