University of Virginia Library

An EPITAPH on Alexander Robertson of Struan.

Poor Struan's eyes are clos'd, he lies
Now in Death's darksome shade;
His chearful voice and mirthful joys
Are all in silence laid:
In this he err'd, that he preferr'd
The man he hated most,
To be his heir, and took not care,
Till his estate was lost.
He in his life had not a wife
Among the human race;
But the nine lasses of Parnassus
By turns he did embrace.
No children did from him proceed
Of the terrestrial kind:
But thousands stand in well-rang'd bands,
The produce of his mind;
These will show forth his fame and worth,
Through ages to ensue;
No time can waste, nor envy blast
A character so true.
What he desir'd, he ne'er acquir'd;
And that was once to see
Each ancient Lord to's own restor'd,
And James supreme to be:
But all may know, that here below,
None can be satisfied;
For all men wish some certain bliss,
That is by Heav'n denied.
But now his shade is from us fled,
And join'd the seraphs bless'd;
There to complete the numbers sweet,
That here he oft express'd.
Let Scotsmen all, both great and small,
Lament the death of Struan,
And ev'ry thing that seems to bring
About their country's ruin.