LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. O GOUDIE! terror o' the whigs, Girnin looks back, Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, See how she fetches at the thrapple, Enthusiasm's past redemption, Gaen in a galloping consumption, Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption Death soon will end her. "Tis you and Taylor* are the chief An' twa red peats wad send relief, A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, Then, when I'm tir'd and sae are ye, Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie, This may do maun do, sir, wi' them wna And when I downa yoke a naig, * Dr. Taylor, of Norwich The Poet, some guid angel help him Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only he's no just 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 just nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says he winna break it; And rascals whyles that do him wrang, But then, nae thanks to him for a' that, Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor sinfu' 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 orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, Morality! thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! No-stretch a point to cɛ.ch a plack; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving: No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own: I'll warrant, then, ye're nae deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, Ye'll some day squeel in quakin terror! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgot my Dedication' But when Divinity comes cross me, So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapor, I thought them something like yoursel'. Then patronize them wi' your favor, But that's a word I need na say; For prayin I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But ise repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, Sir: - "May ne'er misfortune's growling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May K-'s far honor'd name, Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till H -s, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labors risen; And seven braw fellows, stout an' able |