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, 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'!
And frae your een a tear let fa';
Famed Gregory death has ta'en awa'

Without remeid ;

The skaith ye've met wi's nae that smaʼ,
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.

He could, by Euclid prove, lang syne,

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; But now he's dead.

In Algebra weel skill'd he was,

And kent fu' weel Proportion's laws :
He could 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,
And kent the nature o' the sector:
Upo' baith globes he weel could lecture,

And gar's tak heed:

O' geometry he was the Hector;

But now he's dead.

G g

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
Whan they were skelpin at the ba':
They took leg-bail, and ran awa

Wi' pith and speed:

We winna get a sport sae braw,

Sin' Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
And cleed our skins in mourning deep,
For Gregory death will fairly keep,

To tak his nap:

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,
His race doth run.

Frae naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings ;
The breeze nae od❜rous flavour brings,
Frae Borean cave;

And dwynin Nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nippin' train,
Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owre a' his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole;
A bield for mony a cauldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth;

While round they gar the bicker roll, To weet their mouth.

Whan merry Yule-day comes, I trow, You'll scantlins find a hungry mou; Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou O' gusty gear,

And kickshaws, strangers to our view

Sin' fairn-year.

ye braw,

Ye browster wives! now busk
And fling your sorrows far awa;
Then, come and gie's the tither blaw
O' reaming ale,

Mair precious than the Well o' Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursels we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl,

To spoil our glee,

As lang's there's pith into the barrel,
We'll drink and gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks;
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.