An' aft your mofs-traverfing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curft, mifchievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in fome miry flough he funk is,
Ne'er mair to rife.
When Mafons myftic word an' grip,
In ftorms an' tempefts raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, ftrange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye wad whip
Aff ftraught to h-11.
Lang fyne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers firft were pair'd,
An' all the Soul of Love they fhar'd,
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry fwaird,
'Mang better folk,
An' i sklented on the man of Uzz
Your fpitefu' joke?
having a charm. c water-fpirits. & trick-contriving. • trick. h withered periwig. i ran obliquely.
A Dedication to G**** H*******, Efq. From the fame.
XPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A d fleechin, © fleth'rin Dedication,
To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' fprung o' great an' noble bluid;
Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race:
Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulfome, finfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I ftopt fhort,
For fear your modesty be hurt..
This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefou f ́;
For me! fae laigh I need na bow,
For, LORD be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, LORD be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I fhall fay, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's juft fic Poet an' fic Patron.
Vide MILTON, Book VI.
•Tripping. b dodging. perhaps, & fupplicating. e flattering. f belly full.
The Poet, fome guid Angel help him,
Or elfe, I fear, fome ill ane fkelp him!
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only-he's no juft begun yet.
The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,
He's juft-nae better than he shou'd be.
I readily and freely grant,
He downa fee a poor man want;
What's no his ain, he winna tak it ;
What ance he says, he winna break it ;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;
And rafcals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang :
As Mafter, Landlord, Hufband, Father,
He does na fail his part in either.
But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly fymptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, finfu', corrupt Nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos, and Pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The Gentleman in word and deed,
It's no thro' terror of D-mn-t-n;
It's juft a carnal inclination.
Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o' thousands thou haft flain!
Vain is his hope, whafe ftay an' truft is
In moral Mercy, Truth, an' Juftice!
No-ftretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a Brother to his back;
Steal thro' the a winnock fra a wh-re,
But point the Rake that taks the door;
Be to the Poor like onie whunftane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving:
No matter-ftick to found believing.
Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-fpread looves an' lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a folemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' Parties but your own ;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A Ready, sturdy, ftaunch Believer.
O ye wha leave the fprings o' C-lv-n,
For a gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye fons of Herefy and Error,
Ye'll fome day fqueel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the fword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the theath;
When Ruin, with his fweeping befom,
Juft frets till Heav'n commiffion gies him;
While o'er the Harp pale Mis'ry moans,
And ftrikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder fhrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, Sir, for this digreflion,
I maift forgat my Dedication;
But when Divinity comes cross me,
My readers ftill are fure to lose me.
So, Sir, you fee 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to You:
Because (ye need not tak it ill)
I thought them fomething like yoursel.
Then patronize them wi' your favor,
Petitioner fhall ever-
I had amaift faid, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na fay:
For prayin I hae little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-fweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'fe repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir-
May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark,
• Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk!
May ne'er his gen'rous honeft heart,
For that fame gen'rous fpirit smart!
• May K******'s far-honour'd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
• Till H*******'s, at leaft a diz'n,
Are frae their nuptial labors risen :
Five bonie Laffes round their table,
• And fev'n braw Fellows, ftout an' able
To ferve their King an' Country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May Health and Peace, with mutual rays, • Shine on the ev'ning o' his days;
Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair fhall flow,
The laft, fad, mournful rites bestow!'
I will not wind a lang conclufion,
With complimentary effufion:
a Muddy. small ponds. very averfe. d howling.
But whilft your wishes and endeavours
Are bleft with Fortune's fmiles and favours,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal moft fervent,
Your much indebted, humble fervant.
But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!)
That iron-hearted Carl, Want,
Attended, in his grim advances,
By fad mistakes, and black mifchances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble fervant then no more;
For who would humbly ferve the Poor?
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim fad of Fortune's ftrife,
I, thro' the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognife my Mafter dear,
If friendlefs, low, we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand-my Friend and Brother!
From Poems on various Subjects, by ANN YEARSLEY.
HAT ails my heart when thou art nigh?
Why heaves the tender rifing figh?
Ah, Delia, is it love?
My breath in fhorten'd pauses fly;
I tremble, languish, burn, and die;
Doft thou thofe tremors prove?
Does thy fond bofom beat for me?
Doft thou my form in abfence fee,
Still wishing to be near?
Does melting languor fill thy breast?
That fomething, which was ne'er exprefs'd,
Ah! tell me if you dare.
But tho' my foul, foft, fond, and kind,
Could in thy arms a refuge find,
Secur'd from ev'ry woe ;
Yet, ftrict to Honour's louder ftrains,
A last adieu alone remains,
"Tis all the Fates below.
Then blame me not, if doom'd to prove
The endless pangs of hopeless love,
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