To the Memory of Dr. WILLIAM WILKIE, late Professor of Natu ral Philosophy in the University of St. Andrew's.
BLAW saft, my reed, and kindly to my maen,
Weel may ye thole a saft an' dowie strain;
Nae mair to you shall shepherds in a ring,
Wi' blythness skip, or lasses lilt an' sing;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka eie,
An' ilka waefu' shepherd grieve wi' me.
Dav. Wharefor begin a sad an' dowie strain,
Or banish lilting frae the Fifan plain ?
Tho' simmer's gane an' we nae langer view
The blades o' claver wat wi' pearls o' dew.
Cauld Winter's bleakest blasts we'll eithly
Our eldin's driven, an' our har'st is owr;
Our rucks fu' thick are stackit i' the yard,
For the Yule-feast a sautit mart's prepar'd;
The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
Au' aft as mony gleefu' maments yields.
Swyth man! fling a' your sleepy springs awa',
An' on your canty whistle gies a blaw:
Blythness, I trow, maun lighten ilka eie,
An' ilka canty callant sing like me.
Geo. Na, na! a canty spring wad now im-
part
Just threefald sorrow to my heavy heart.
Thof to the weet my ripen'd aits had fawn,
Or shake-winds owr my rigs wi' pith had
blawn,
To this I cou'd hae said, "I carena by,"
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like thae, or lake o' warld's gear,
Are nathing whan we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah! waes me for you, Willie! mony a day
Did I wi' you on yon broom-thackit brae
Hound aff my sheep, an? lat them careless gang
To harken to your cheary tale or sang;
Sangs that for ay, on Caledonia strand,
Shall sit the foremost 'mang her tunefu' band.
I dreamt yestreen his deadly wraith I saw
Gang by my ein as white's the driven snaw;
My colley, Ringie, youf'd an' yowl'd a night,
Cour'd an' crap near me in an unco fright,
I waken'd fley'd, an' shook baith lith and limb;
A cauldness took me, an' my sight grew dim:
I kent that it forspack approachin' wae
When my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the know fu' speedy ran,
Whare I was keppit wi' the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.
Dav. An' wha on Fifan bents can weel re-
fuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his Muse?-
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be daffin an' ilk idle play forgot;
Bring, ilka herd, the mournfu', mournfu' boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews;
Thae let be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallow'd draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be rever'd,
While slow-gawn owsen turn the flow'ry
swaird;
While bonny lambies lick the dews of spring,
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.
Geo. "Twas na for weel tim'd verse or sangs
alane
He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain.
Nature to him had gi'en a kindly lore,
Deep a' her mystic ferlies to explore:
For a' her secret workings he could gie
Reasons that wi' her principles agree.
Ye saw yoursel how weel his mailin' thrave,
Ay better faugh'd an' snodit than the lave;
Lang had the thristles an' the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny rigs delight the view,
An' thriving hedges drink the caller dew.*
Dav. They tell me, Geordie, he had sic a
gift,
That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift,
But he wou'd some auld warld name for't find,
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind :
For this some ca'd him an uncanny wight;
The clash gaed round, "he had the second
sight;"
A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
O' grannies spinnin' at the ingle-side.
Geo. But now he's gane, an' Fame, that whan alive,
Seenil lats ony o' her vot'ries thrive,
Will frae his shinin' name a' motes withdraw, And on her loudest trump his praises blaw. Lang may his sacred banes untroubled rest! Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest! Scholars and bards unheard of yet shall come, And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb, Which in yon ancient kirk-yard shall remain, Fam'd as the urn that hads the MANTUAN swain.
* Dr. Wilkie had a farm near St. Andrew's, on which he made improvements.
On the Death of Mr. DAVID GREGORY, late Professor of Mathematics in the University of St. Andrew's.
NOW mourn, ye college masters a'!
An' frae your ein a tear let fa',
Fam'd GREGORY death has ta'en awa'
Without remeid;
The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma',
Sin' Gregory's dead.
The students too will miss him sair,
To school them weel his eident care.
Now they may mourn for ever mair,
They hae great need ;
They'll hip the maist fek o' their lear.
Sin' Gregory's dead.
He could, by Euclid, prove lang sine
A ganging point compos'd a line;
By numbers too he could divine,
Whan he did read,
That three times three just made up nine;
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