TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE.

Fareweeb ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be daffin and ilk idle play forgot;

Bring ilka herd the mournfu', mournfu' boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews;

Thae lat be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallow'd draps his sacred bier,

Whase sangs will in Scotland be rever'd,

ay

While slow-gawn owsen turn the flow'ry swaird; While bonnie lammie's lick the dews of spring, While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing.

GEORDIE.

"Twas na for weel-tim'd verse or sangs alane,

He bure 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 and snodit than the lave:

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE.

Lang had the thristles and the dockans been ́
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny rigs delight the view,
And thrivin hedges drink the caller dew (1).

DAVIE.

They tell me, Geordie! he had sic a gift, That scarce a starnie blinkit frae the lift, But he wad 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.

GEORDIE.

But now he's sgane; and Fame, that, whan alive, Seenil lats ony o' her votaries thrive,

Will frae his shinin name a' motes withdraw,

And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.

TO THE MEMORY OF DR. WILLIAM WILKIE.

Lang may his sacred bares 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 hauds the Mantuan swain.

ELEGY

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 een a tear let fa',

Fam'd GREGORY death has ta'en awa'

Without remead;

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 feck o' their lear,
Sin' Gregory's dead.

ELEGY ON MR. DAVID GREGORY.

He could, by Euclid, prove lang syne
A ganging point compos'd a line;

By numbers too he cou'd divine,

When he did read,

That three times three just made up nine;

But now he's dead.

In Algebra weel skill'd he was,

An' kent fu' weel proportion's laws;

He cou'd mak clear baith B's and A's

Wi' his lang head;

Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws;

But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,

An' kent the nature o' the sector,

Upo' baith globes he weel cou'd lecture,

An' gar's tak heed:

O' geometry he was the Hector;

But now he's dead.