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 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 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 fays, 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 Master, Landlord, Husband, Father,
He does na 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
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-on;
It's just 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-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abufe 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-stick to found believing.
Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces,
Wi' weel-fpread looves an' lang, wry
Grunt up a folemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' Parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A fteady, fturdy, staunch Believer,
a Window.
O ye wha leave the fprings o' C-lv-n,
For a gumlie dubs b 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 fheath;
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 digreffion,
I maift forgat my Dedication;
But when Divinity comes crofs me,
My readers ftill are fure to lofe me.
So, Sir, you fee 'twas nae daft
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,
And your 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 baithe dead-fweer, an' wretched ill o'ts
But I'fe repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir-
May ne'er Misfortune's d 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 least a diz'n,
Are frae their nuptial labors risen :
• Five bonie Laffes round their table,
And fev'n brave Fellows, ftout an' able
To ferve their King an' Country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed fteel!
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. b fmall ponds. every averfe. d howling
But whilft your wifhes 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 miftakes, and black mifchances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleafures 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 recognize 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.
And live by thee unblest :
My joyless hours fly faft away;
Let them fly on, I chide their stay,
For fure 'tis Heav'n to reft.
ODE, tranflated from the Perfian of the Poet HAFEZ.
By Sir WILLIAM JONES,
WEET Maid, if thou would't charm my fight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold,
That rofy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight,
Than all Becara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.
Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy penfive heart be glad.
Whate'er the frowning zealots say,
Tell them their Eden cannot shew,
A ftream fo clear as Ronabad,
A bower fo fweet as Mofellay.
Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whofe eyes our fecret haunts infeft,
Their dear deftructive charms display;
Each glance my tender breaft invades,
And robs my wounded foul of rest,
As Tartars feize their deftin'd prey.
In vain with love our bofoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our fighs,
New luftre to thofe charms impart
Can cheeks where living rofes blow,
Where Nature fpreads her richeft dyes,
Require the borrow'd glofs of art?
Speak not of fate-ah!-change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom;
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the facred gloom.
Beauty has fuch refiftless power,
That even the chalte Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth fo lovely and fo coy t
But ah! fweet maid, my counfel hear,
(Youth fhould attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders fage)
While mufic charms the ravish'd ear,
While fparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay and fcorn the frowns of age.
What cruel anfwer have I heard!
And yet, by Heav'n I love thee ftill:
Can ought be cruel from thy lip?
Yet fay, how fell that bitter word
From lips which ftreams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey fip?
Go boldly forth, my fimple lay,
Whofe accents flow with artlefs ease,
Like Orient pearls at random ftrung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damfels fay;
But, oh! far fweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom thefe notes are fung.
SOFTLY, an Ode from the fame.
By the late Captain THOMAS FORD.
ISGUIS'D, laft night, I rufh'd from home,
To feek the palace of my foul:
I reach'd by filent fteps the dome,
And to her chamber Softly stole.
On a gay various couch reclin'd,
In fweet repose I saw the maid; My breaft, like afpins to the wind,
To love's alarum foftly play'd.
Two fingers, then, to half expanfe,
I trembling op'd-with fear opprefs'd,
With thefe I pull'd her veil afkance,
Then fofly drew her to my breast.
"Who art thou, wretch !" my angel cry'd;
Whifp'ring, I faid-,, Thy flave :-thy fwain:
"But hufh, my love!-forbear to chide :
"Speak foftly, left fome hear the strain.”
Trembling with love, with hope, and fear,
At length her ruby lips I prefs'd:
Sweet kiffes oft-mellifluous-dear-
Softly I fnatch'd-was foftly blefs'd.
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