ON JAMES, LORD CARNEGIE.

As poets feign, and painters draw,
Love and the Paphian bride;
Sae we the fair Southeska saw,
Carnegie by her side.

Now fever'd frae his sweets by death,
Her grief wha can express?
What muse can tell the waefu' skaith,
Or mother's deep distress?

Sae roses wither in their buds,
Kill'd by an eastern blast,
And sweetest dawns, in May, with clouds,
And storms are soon o'ercast.

Ah, chequer'd life! — Ae day gives joy,
The niest our hearts maun bleed:
Heaven caus'd a seraph turn a boy,
Now gars us trow he 's dead.

Wha can reflect on 's ilka grace,
The sweetness of his tongue,
His manly looks, his lovely face,
And judgment ripe sae young!

And yet forbear to make a doubt,
As did the royal swain,
When he with grief of heart cried out,
That " Man was made in vain! "

Mortals the ways of Providence
But very scrimply scan;
The changing scene eludes the sense
And reasonings of man.

How many thousands ilka year,
Of hopefu' children crave
Our love and care, then disappear,
To glut a gaping grave!

What is this grave? — A wardrobe poor,
Which hads our rotting duds:
Th' immortal mind, serene and pure,
Is claith'd aboon the clouds.

Then cease to grieve, dejected fair,
You had him but in trust;
He was your beauteous son, your heir,
Yet still ae half was dust;

The other to its native skies
Now wings its happy way;
With glorious speed and joy he flies,
There blissfully to stray.

Carnegie then but changes clay
For fair celestial rays;
He mounts up to eternal day,
And, as he parts, he says,'

" Adieu, Mamma, forget my tender fate!
" These rushing tears are vain, they flow too late. "
This said, he hasted hence with pleasing joy;
I saw the gods embrace their darling boy.