Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Epitaph intended for himselfJames Beattie (17351803)
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Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay
Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll,
No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Like thee have languished after empty joys,
Like thee have laboured in the stormy strife,
Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys….
Forgive my lapses; for thyself may’st fall:
Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale—
I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.