EPITAPH UPON MY FRIEND, DAVID STEUART ROBERTSON FROM HIS GRAVESTONE AT LANCASTER

Here Steuart sleeps; and should some brother Scot
Wander this way, and pause upon the spot,
He need not ask, now life's poor show is o'er,
What arms he carried, or what plaid he wore:
So small the value of illustrious birth,
Brought to this solemn, last assay of earth!
Yet, unreproved, his epitaph might say
A royal soul was wrapt in Steuart's clay,
And generous actions consecrate his mound,
More than all titles, though of kingly sound.