That in our country's annals stands yclept
Fair Duddingstonia, where you may be bless'd
With simple fare and vegetable sweets,
Freed from the clamours of the busy world.

Or, if for recreation you should stray

To Leithian shore, and breathe the keener air
Wafted from Neptune's empire of the main;
If appetite invite, and cash prevail,

Ply not your joints upon the homeward track,
Till Lawson,1 chiefest of the Scottish hosts!
To nimble-footed waiters give command
The cloth to lay.-Instinctively they come,
And lo! the table, wrapt in cloudy steams,
Groans with the weight of the transporting fare
That breathes frankincense on the guests around.
Now, while stern Winter holds his frigid sway,
And to a period spins the closing year;
While festivals abound, and sportive hours
Kill the remembrance of our weaning time,
Let not Intemperance, destructive fiend!
Gain entrance to your halls.-Despoil'd by him,
Shall cloyed appetite, forerunner sad

Of rank disease, invet'rate clasp your frame.
Contentment shall no more be known to spread
Her cherub wings round thy once happy dwelling,
But misery of thought, and racking pain,
Shall plunge you headlong to the dark abyss.

mous for certain 'sheep-head' dinners. The crania being afterwards placed, says Chambers, committing an exquisite bull, as stepping-stones across pools in the street, the place was quizzically spoken of as a great City possessing a hundred bone bridges.

1 This Tavern was in a large gruesome old house (dated 1678) on the Shore at Leith, not far from the flag-house at the end of the pier. It still exists, but as a private dwelling.

THE DELIGHTS OF VIRTUE.

RETURNING morn, in orient blush array'd,

With gentle radiance hail'd the sky serene; No rustling breezes waved the verdant shade, Nor swelling surge disturb'd the azure main.

These moments, Meditation, sure are thine;
These are the halcyon joys you wish to find,
When nature's peaceful elements combine
To suit the calm composure of the mind.

The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power,

To the green mountain's air-born summit flew, Charm'd with the thoughtful stillness of an hour, That usher'd beaming fancy to her view.

Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung
The sun, reviver of each drooping flower;
At his approach the lark, with matin song,
In notes of gratitude confess'd his power.

So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine
On those who wish to profit by her ways;
Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine,
To taste the comforts of her blissful rays.

She with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile,
Can dissipate Adversity's stern gloom,
Make meagre Poverty contented smile,

And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom.

Sweeter than shady groves in summer's pride,
Than flowery dales or grassy meads is she;

Delightful as the honeyed streams that glide
From the rich labours of the busy bee.

Her paths and alleys are for ever green;
There Innocence, in snowy robes array'd,
With smiles of pure content, is hail'd the queen
And happy mistress of the sacred shade.

O let no transient gleam of earthly joy
From Virtue lure your lab'ring steps aside;
Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy

With thoughts that spring from insolence and pride.

Soon will the winged moments speed away,

When you'll no more the plumes of honour wear: Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay,

And Pride look humble when he ponders there.

Deprived of Virtue, where is Beauty's power?

Her dimpled smiles, her roses charm no more; So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower:

We loath that beauty which we loved before.

How fair are Virtue's buds where'er they blow,
Or in the desert wild or garden gay!
Her flowers how sacred wheresoe'er they show,
Unknown to the [vile] canker of decay!

CHARACTER OF A FRIEND,

IN AN EPITAPH WHICH HE DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO WRITE.

UNDER this turf to mould'ring earth consign'd,

Lies he who once was fickle as the wind.

Alike the scenes of good and ill he knew,

From the chaste temple to the lewdest stew.
Virtue and vice in him alternate reign'd;
That fill'd his mind, and this his pocket drain'd,
Till in the contest they so stubborn grew,
Death gave the parting blow, and both withdrew.

A TAVERN ELEGY.

FLED are the moments of delusive mirth,
The fancy'd pleasure! paradise divine!
Hush'd are the clamours that derive their birth
From generous floods of soul reviving wine.

Still night and silence now succeed their noise;
The erring tides of passion rage no more;
But all is peaceful as the ocean's voice

When breezeless waters kiss the silent shore.

Here stood the juice whose care controlling powers
Could ev'ry human misery subdue,

And wake to sportive joy the lazy hours,
That to the languid senses hateful grew.

Attracted by the magic of the bowl,

Around the swelling brim in full array The glasses circled, as the planets roll,

And hail with borrow'd light the god of day.

Here music, the delight of moments gay!

Bade the unguarded tongues their motion cease,

And with a mirthful, a melodious lay,

Awed the fell voice of discord into peace.

These are the joys that virtue must approve,
While reason shines with majesty divine,
Ere our ideas in disorder move,

And sad excess against the soul combine.

What evils have not frenzied mortals done
By wine, that ignis fatuus of the mind!
How many by its force to vice are won,

Since first ordain'd to tantalize mankind?

By Bacchus' power, ye sons of riot, say,
How many watchful sentinels have bled;
How many travellers have lost their way,
By lamps unguided through the ev'ning shade!

0

spare those friendly twinklers of the night; Let no rude cane their hallow'd orbs assail. For cowardice alone condemns the light, That shows her countenance aghast and pale.

Now the short taper warns me to depart
Ere darkness shall assume his dreary sway;
Ere solitude fall heavy on my heart,

That lingers for the far approach of day.

Who would not vindicate the happy doom
To be for ever number'd with the dead,
Rather than bear the miserable gloom,

When all his comfort, all his friends are fled?

Bear me, ye gods! where I may calmly rest
From all the follies of the night secure,

The balmy blessings of repose to taste,

Nor hear the tongue of outrage at my door.