extempore on somememorations of thomson
dost thou not rise, indignant shade,
and smile wi' spurning scorn,
when they wha wad hae starved thy life,
thy senseless turf adorn?
helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae,
wi' meikle honest toil,
and claught th' unfading garland there—
thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.