"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 wha For me, sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit! I can plough; 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, 1 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, The gentleman in word and deed, t's nae thro' terror o' damnation : It's just a carnal inclination. Morality! thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No-stretch a point to ca.ch a plack; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile grr c 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, And your petitioner shall ever I had amaist said, ever pray, But that's a word I need na say; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't "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; Five bonie lasses round their jable, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, I will not wind a lang conclusion, But whilst your wishes and endeavors But if (which powers above prevent)! By sad mistakes and black mischances, |