"Tis you and Taylor* are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom tar barrel

An' twa red peats wad send relief,
An' end the quarrel.

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleeching, fleeth'rin' dedication,
To rouse you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then, when I'm tir'd

and sae are ye,

Wi' monie a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;

For me, sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit! I can plough;

And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit! I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin',
It's just sic Poet, an' sic Patron

* 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;
Aught he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his goodness is abus'd:

And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does not mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does nae fail his part in either.

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;
Abuse a brother to his back,

Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re,
But point to the rake that takes the door;
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving:

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,
For gumlie duds of your ain delvin!
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quakin terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till heav'n commission gies him;
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgot my Dedication'

But when Divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapor,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to you;
Because (ye need na tak it ill)

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;
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;

Five bonie lasses round their jable,

And seven braw fellows, stout an' able
To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe

When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion;

But whilst your wishes and endeavors
Are blest wi' fortune's smiles and favors,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent)!
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances,

By sad mistakes and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of Fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand-my friend and brother,