Lang may yon ancient kirk-yard shall remain, Famed 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 Andrews. Now mourn, ye college masters a'! Without remeid ; The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma', The students too, will miss him sair; He could, by Euclid prove, lang syne, By numbers too, he could divine, That three times three just made up In Algebra weel skill'd he was, nine; And kent fu' weel Proportion's laws: Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws; Weel vers'd was he in architecture, And kent the nature o' the sector: And gar's tak heed : O' geometry he was the Hector; But now he's dead. Gg Sae weel's he'd fley the students a', Wi' pith and speed : We winna get a sport sae braw, Sin' Gregory's dead. Great 'casion hae we a' to weep, He'll till the resurrection sleep, As sound's a tap. THE DAFT DAYS. Now mirk December's dowie face Glowrs owre the rigs wi' sour grimace, While, thro' his minimum o' space The bleer-e'ed sun, Wi' blinkin light and stealin' pace, Frae naked groves nae birdie sings; And dwynin Nature droops her wings, Mankind but scanty pleasure glean Sends drift owre a' his bleak domain, Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole; Baith warm and couth; While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouth. Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow, And kickshaws, strangers to our view Ye browster wives! now busk ye braw, Then, come and gie's the tither blaw Mair precious than the Well o' Spa, Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl', As lang's there's pith into the barrel, Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix, But banish vile Italian tricks Frae out your quorum; Nor fortes wi' pianos mix ; Gie's Tullochgorum. For nought can cheer the heart sae weel, As can a canty Highland reel; It even vivifies the heel To skip and dance: Lifeless is he wha canna feel Its influence. |