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'! Without remeid ; The skaith ye've met wi's nae that smaʼ, The students too, will miss him sair; ; 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 : Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws; Weel vers'd was he in architecture, 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', Wi' pith and speed: We winna get a sport sae braw, Sin' Gregory's dead. Great 'casion hae we a' to weep, 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, 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, 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 Mair precious than the Well o' Spa, Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl', To spoil our glee, As lang's there's pith into the barrel, Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix, 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. |