son on the death of robert riddell

of glenriddell and friars' carse.

no more, ye warblers of the wood! no more;

nor pour your descant grating on my soul;

thou young-eyed spring! gay in thy verdant stole,

more wele were to me grim winter's wildest roar.

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

ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend!

how can i to the tuneful strain attend?