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Still bending o'er the clay-cold maid,
The youthful warior hung;
To guard her callow young.
That urg'd the fierce attack;
And gor'd him in the back.
Smild on the gushing gore,
Fate sung the deadly lore.
But yet he quitted not his sword,
Nor fell he to the ground,
Had forc'd a fatal wound.
The tyrant, like a tree o'erthrown,
Fell breathless on the earth,
Beside him too in death,
The fair maid woke, as from a dream,
And saw her lover lay,
While they were clad in clay.
She kiss'd the wound that tore his fide,
With many a weep and wail,
But all would not prevail.
Which by her lover lay,
A little space to stay.
Her snowy bosom now she bares,
And right the hilt she fet,
In her heart's blood was wet.
The soldiers on their batter'd shields,
They bore them both away,
The luckless lovers lay.
E. S. J.
TO THE REV. MR TH-NOFO-TREE,
ON HIS CONFUTATION OF DR PRIESTLY.
The title-page is well enough,
The rest nor one nor t'other,
E. S. J.
TO H. W. T.
ON HIS ELEGANT TRANSLATION OF ST MARTHE's
yet the Theban touch'd the tuneful lyre, Ere yet the bard had felt the holy fire, Sweet poesy, in am'rous toy with thee, The little cherubs met in sympathy. In rosy health they wreath'd the dewy flow'r, To deck fair Venus Numb'ring in her bow'i, Th' ambrofial wreathe, which Venus' soft decree Gives to the bard of Venus' poesy ; Who sung her rites, and ftrove her blush to hide, With Modesty ftill trembling by his side. The theme how sweet, an infant babe the theme, Still sporting gay as gilded summer's beam. How oft enraptur’d, in thy lovely line, I've gather'd sweets, and tasted bliss divine ! As down some ftream I've sported all the way, And gather'd fow'rs the live-long summer's day. Thy fong still trembles on my list’ning ear, As soft as flows the sympathetic tear. Yet thou can'ít fing of mighty Freedom's lays, And bid the punic shield terrific blaze ; Bid Scipio ftand, with noble fury fraught, His Rome yet trembling on the brink of nought.
E'en now I see the punic hero smile,
But, O! to thee *, whose manly bosom glow'd,
E. S. J. * The Earl of BUCHAN.
WRITTEN DURING THE DISTURBANCES IN EDINBURGHL,
FAIR SC-T-A stands a quiet cow,
Ane G-die hads her lugs,
Ane P-t he milks her dugs.
Stinted in her fother;
She'll tak their stoups a lether.
the nation ring, She'll tak a'pl-men fic a lick,
May be she'll fell the ****. E, S. J.
A SCOTS SONG,
AE day at the road-side I stopped to reft,
E. S. J.