To The Same, On The Author Being Threatened With His Resentment. (On Seeing The Beautiful Seat Of Lord Galloway.)

    No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
        The Stewarts all were brave;
    Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
        Not one of them a knave.

    Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
        Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
    So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
        So ended in a mire.

    What dost thou in that mansion fair?
        Flit, Galloway, and find
    Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
        The picture of thy mind!

    The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
        The fumes of wine infuriate send;
    (Not moony madness more astray;)
        Who but deplores that hapless friend?

    Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
        Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
    Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
        'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

    O Death, hadst thou but spared his life,
        Whom we this day lament,
    We freely wad exchang'd the wife,
        And a' been weel content!

    Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff,
        The swap we yet will do't;
    Take thou the carlin's carcase aff,
        Thou'se get the soul to boot.

    Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
        How I so found it full of pleasing charms?
    Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
        Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
    Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
        Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
    For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
        I tremble to approach an angry God,
    And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

    Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
        Fain promise never more to disobey;
    But, should my Author health again dispense,
        Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
    Again in folly's path might go astray;
        Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
    Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,