To the Memory of the right Honourable MARGARET COUNTESS OF WEEMS. Who departed this Life at Weems, February 20 1688.  
A FUNERAL ELEGY.  

LIke as an aged lofty-fronted Oak,  
Whose Verdure, Boughs, and Shelter, might provock,  
The proudest in the Dodonean Grove,  
Which Superstition did devout to Jove,  
Hath many blasts, and many Sunshines known,  
At last unto the dreadful Axe falls down,  
So Dies this Lady, whom the Age did find,  
Perfections Zenith to all Womankind.  
But as when thorough crowds we make our way,  
It falls, that each man's haste, the whole doth stay,  
So fares it in this Subject; that I doubt  
So much would pass, that nothing can get out.  
For as Her Birth was honourable, and high,  
Come of the greatest of Nobility.  
Her Brother, the Great Rothes, nothing under  
His Prince's Darling, and the Ages wonder,  
Whose Worth, and Wit, such height of Honours won,  
That made him Vice Roy, to the Imperial Throne.  
Herself by Heaven, and Earth so honoured  
She heired three Earldoms with Her nuptial Bed  
In all the which, either for Wife, or Mother,  
Scotland shall never parallel another:  
She in the Floods of Wealth, practised Austerity,  
And in a throng of Hypocrites, Sincerity.  
When crossed (by Pious Patience) she was able  
To make misfortunes look most amiable.  
That her Familiars concluded all,  
Damn Nature, had forgot to give her gall.  
Her Humours so well poised all did see,  
In stead of 〈◊〉, she got Geometry.  
So steadfast 〈◊〉 to her was all one matter  
If smiles, 〈…〉, did cause the eyes to water.  
Of Fortunes both, she still such measures had,  
The hottest Sun casts still the blackest shade.  
Where honesty is fixed, there no wind  
Can blow't away, or glittering look it blind.  
She knew that the just Heavens oftimes decree,  
For joys uncertain, certain misery.  
That glorious nothing, guilded emptiness,  
Honour; did Her great Soul the more depress.  
So humble always, that Her very glance  
Put pride imperious out of countenance.  
She did abhor the world, though lodged therein,  
As fish continue fresh, in seas of brin.  
In midst of Delicates she was content,  
To make her Feasts, but hunger's banishment,  
To Reason always she did sense submit,  
And made it bridle ranging appetit.  
She neither was too bashful, nor too bold;  
Pattern to young, and Patron to the old.  
Her Charity, made her be like the Sun,  
Extending Light and Heat to every one;  
That with the rest she had this divine quality,  
That most resembleth Heaven, Liberality.  
She of all, wherewith God had her endued,  
Herself a Stuard, more than owner showed.  
None of this ages iron-hearted wretches,  
That rather part with God, than Gold, or riches.  
Who to Eternity, will feel the knell,  
Wealth was the bridge that passed them post to Hell.  
So debonair and complaisant was She,  
Her Mind and Mouth had still a Sympathy.  
Nor with these peevish Dams, could she comply,  
Who what they covet most, do most deny  
Truth rides in Triumph, when Fig-leaves do fail,  
Hypocrisy it is but Virtue's Veil.  
But She excelled in a high degree,  
Both in Devotion, and in Charity.  
The great Examplar of all Good, beneath  
we'll say She Lived, while others only Breath,  
She Lived, and Died, a Lady most complete,  
And which is wonderful, as Good, as Great.  
To Ages all, than Lady Weems here lies  
Justly sir named the Pious, Good, and Wise,   

Nunquam parca minus quam hic, quae commaniatoti  
Genti sceptra tenens, aternaque foeder a servans  
Quae magnos parvosque terit, qua fortibus aquat  
Imbelles, populisque deuces, seniumque juventae.   Si frequentius de morte tua, quam de vitae longitudine cogitares, non dubium est, quin ardentius te ipsum cirrigeres. 
N. Paterson.