On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs
Here lies John Bushby—honest man, Cheat him, Devil—if you can!
Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell
Of Glenriddell and Friars’ Carse.
No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more; Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter’s wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping o’er his bier: The man of worth—and hath not left his peer! Is in his “narrow house,” for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet.
The Lovely Lass O’ Inverness
The lovely lass o’ Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For, e’en to morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blin’s her e’e. “Drumossie moor, Drumossie day— A waefu’ day it was to me! For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three. “Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, Their graves are growin’ green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman’s e’e! “Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou has made sair, That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee!”