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VII.
The tumbling torrents boiling roar.
The winter-shrouded lifeless trees,
The nipping frosts mildewing hoar.
My sad desponding fancy please.
VIII.
Joy’s mortal bane, false womankind!
For you on Avon’s banks I’ll mourn;
Nor soothing solace hope to find.
But in the silent peaceful urn.
VERSES WRITTEN IN THE HIGH CHURCH
YARD, GLASGOW, WHERE THE AUTHOR
NOW LIES.
I.
Grieve not ye wife, though in this yard
Some hundred thousands lie;
The just inherit their reward,
Are happiest when they die.
II.
When wicked men to graves descend
No more they’ll plague mankind;
On earth that life should never end
Was ne’er by heaven design’d.
