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         Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
      
       
         
           1685
        
      
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         B04934
         Wing P696
         ESTC R181521
         51784596
         ocm 51784596
         175005
         
           
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             On that devout and industrious gentelman, George Monteith, merchant in Edinburgh, who departed this life the 2. day of Juny [sic], 1685. A funeral elegie. / N. Paterson.
             Paterson, Ninian, d. 1688.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             s.n.,
             [Edinburgh? :
             1685]
          
           
             Caption title.
             Place and date of publication suggested by Wing (2nd ed.).
             Reproduction of original in: National Library of Scotland.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Monteith, George, d. 1685 -- Death and burial -- Poetry.
           Elegiac poetry, Scottish -- Early works to 1800.
           Broadsides -- Scotland -- 17th century
        
      
    
     
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           On
           that
           Devout
           ,
           and
           Industrious
           GENTELMAN
           ,
           GEORGE
           MONTEITH
           ,
           
             Merchant
             in
          
           Edinburgh
           ,
           
             who
             departed
             this
             Life
          
           
             
               the
               2.
               day
               of
            
             Juny
             ,
             1685.
             
          
        
         
           
             A
             Funeral
          
           ELEGIE
           .
        
         
           DEvout
           and
           Precious
           Soul
           should
           I
           in
           verse
           ,
        
         
           Attempt
           they
           glorious
           virtues
           to
           reherse
           ,
        
         
           It
           were
           a
           contradiction
           to
           expresse
           ,
        
         
           And
           bring
           to
           numbers
           what
           is
           numberless
           :
        
         
           Verses
           must
           loss
           their
           feet
           ,
           and
           Elegies
        
         
           Give
           up
           their
           running
           to
           our
           melting
           eyes
           ;
        
         
           Yet
           reason
           sayes
           ,
           that
           it
           can
           be
           no
           Crime
        
         
           What
           we
           may
           speak
           in
           Prose
           to
           writ
           in
           Rime
           .
        
         
           Witness
           the
           
             Sacrid
             Scriptures
          
           ,
           it
           's
           no
           wrong
        
         
           To
           vent
           a
           Lamentation
           in
           a
           Song
           .
        
         
           So
           rational
           a
           grief
           who
           utters
           it
           ,
        
         
           At
           once
           both
           show's
           his
           sorrow
           ,
           and
           his
           witt
           .
        
         
           I
           'l
           not
           imploy
           my
           Muse
           to
           chide
           stern
           death
           ,
        
         
           That
           with
           Blood-thirsty
           haste
           did
           cut
           thy
           breath
           ,
        
         
           When
           thou
           thy self
           did
           chide
           the
           fates
           delay
           ,
        
         
           Gasping
           from
           those
           sad
           times
           to
           be
           away
           .
        
         
           Nor
           with
           Fantastick
           flight
           implore
           the
           sphears
           ,
        
         
           To
           bath
           thy
           memory
           with
           us
           in
           tears
           .
        
         
           While
           we
           believe
           that
           new
           Jerusalem
        
         
           Where
           now
           thou
           art
           ,
           Surmounts
           both
           us
           and
           them
           .
        
         
           Thou
           now
           art
           infranchised
           ,
           and
           at
           large
           ,
        
         
           And
           from
           our
           Warrs
           death
           Seals
           thee
           a
           discharge
           .
        
         
           Where
           clad
           in
           Robes
           of
           Immortality
        
         
           Thour'
           t
           levi'd
           with
           the
           glorious
           Hierarchy
           .
        
         
           For
           here
           below
           thou
           wer
           't
           in
           each
           Estate
        
         
           Humble
           ,
           active
           ,
           prudent
           ,
           just
           ,
           and
           temperat
           ,
        
         
           And
           with
           both
           actions
           and
           thy
           thoughts
           expence
        
         
           Did
           keep
           thy
           Conscience
           still
           without
           offence
           .
        
         
           Who
           knew
           thy
           vertues
           well
           ,
           thy
           understood
        
         
           Thou
           wert
           an
           Angel
           cloath'd
           with
           flesh
           and
           blood
           .
        
         
           Thy
           birth
           above
           the
           common
           levell
           was
           ,
        
         
           Thy
           Nuptial
           types
           in
           honour
           did
           surpasse
           .
        
         
           Thou
           was
           not
           troubled
           with
           mad
           Midas
           itch
           ,
        
         
           Yet
           GOD
           did
           bliss
           thy
           store
           ,
           and
           made
           thee
           rich
           .
        
         
           Thou
           was
           a
           man
           of
           business
           ,
           and
           yet
           ,
        
         
           To
           serve
           thy
           Maker
           was
           they
           chief
           delight
           .
        
         
           Wherefore
           GOD
           takes
           thee
           home
           ,
           where
           now
           thou
           sings
        
         
           
             Grave
             ,
             wher
             's
             they
             conquest
             ?
             death
             where
             are
             thy
             stings
             ?
          
        
         
           
             
               
                 Dignum
                 laude
                 virum
              
               Musa
               
                 vetat
                 mori
              
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             N.
             PATERSON
             .
          
        
      
    
     
  

