I see the flowers and spreading trees,
     I hear the wild birds singing;
     But what a weary wight can please,
     And Care his bosom wringing!

     Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
     Yet dare na for your anger;
     But secret love will break my heart,
     If I conceal it langer.

     If thou refuse to pity me,
     If thou shalt love another,
     When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
     Around my grave they’ll wither.

Versicles of 1795

The Solemn League And Covenant

     The Solemn League and Covenant
     Now brings a smile, now brings a tear;
     But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs: 
     If thou’rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

     Compliments Of John Syme Of Ryedale

Lines sent with a Present of a Dozen of Porter.

     O had the malt thy strength of mind,
     Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
     ’Twere drink for first of human kind,
     A gift that e’en for Syme were fit.

     Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

Inscription On A Goblet

     There’s Death in the cup, so beware! 
     Nay, more—­there is danger in touching;
     But who can avoid the fell snare,
     The man and his wine’s so bewitching!

Apology For Declining An Invitation To Dine

     No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
     And cookery the first in the nation;
     Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
     Is proof to all other temptation.

Epitaph For Mr. Gabriel Richardson

     Here Brewer Gabriel’s fire’s extinct,
     And empty all his barrels: 
     He’s blest—­if, as he brew’d, he drink,
     In upright, honest morals.

Epigram On Mr. James Gracie

     Gracie, thou art a man of worth,
     O be thou Dean for ever! 
     May he be damned to hell henceforth,
     Who fauts thy weight or measure!

Bonie Peg-a-Ramsay

     Cauld is the e’enin blast,
     O’ Boreas o’er the pool,
     An’ dawin’ it is dreary,
     When birks are bare at Yule.

     Cauld blaws the e’enin blast,
     When bitter bites the frost,
     And, in the mirk and dreary drift,
     The hills and glens are lost: 

     Ne’er sae murky blew the night
     That drifted o’er the hill,
     But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay
     Gat grist to her mill.

Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage

     To the Memory of Robert Riddell.

     To Riddell, much lamented man,
     This ivied cot was dear;
     Wandr’er, dost value matchless worth? 
     This ivied cot revere.