Classic Poem

My Muse will flow in sable strains of woe,
Since honesty is dead, and virtue 's low;
While all the vicious sons of vice are glad
That Brechen's number'd with the silent dead.
Well may the sons of Caledonia mourn
For him who perjury thro' life did spurn;
For him whom demon Discord ne'er could gain;
For him whom faction never yet could stain;
For him who was the last a surplice wore
With an untainted heart like Laud of yore.
M'D ONALD too is gone! ah! hapless youth!
Who long was sacred to the paths of truth
And to the muse his tow'ring genius flows
In all the windings of Vimonda's woes:
His memory my humble muse it rears,
Who did instruct me in my youthful years;
But like good Brown his fate was war to wage
Against the vices of an iron age.
Now, Christians all, seek ye a heavenly crown,
Like to all godly men, and worthy Brown .
For like a flow'r, we flourish and we blast,
Ere we can count our days, they fly so fast:
They end, before we know our race is run;
They vanish, ere we find they're well begun.
Man count thy days; if rapid is their haste
For thy dull mind to count, count every day thy last.