426 ANNUAL R E G I S T E R, 1794. 



Sonnet on the death of Robert Rlidell, esq. of Gletiriddelf. 



NO more, ye waiblers of the wood, no more ; 

 Nor pour your descant grating on my soul ; 

 Thou, young-ey'd Spring, gay in thy vcidant stole. 

 More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 



How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes ? 



Ye blow upon the soil that wraps my friend ! 



Kow can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 

 That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddell lies. 



Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe. 



And soothe the virtues weeping o'er his bier : 

 The man of worth, who bath not left his peer, 



Is In his narrow house for eter darkly low. 



Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet; 

 Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



Robert Bubns- 



Account 



