Robert Gordon!

I beg your pardon for so having kept you waiting after some poor verses of mine. You know, my English is not fine. I speak it; but only very imperfectly.

The snow,
Which renders the ground all white,
From heaven, comes here below:
Its pine frozen drops invite us all
To white -- keep our thoughts and our acts,
So that when our bodies do fall,
Our merits, before God, be facts.
How many who, with good
desires,
Have died and lost their souls to fires?
Good desires kept unpractic'd
Stand, before God, unnotic'd
O Robert, let us be fond
Of virtue! Virtues abound
In every sort of good,
Let virtue be our soul's food.