MENAGE, the pedant figur'd there,
A trifler with a folemn air:
And there in loose, unfeemly view,
The graceless, eafy LOVELING too.

'Tis here grave poets urge their claim, For fome thin blast of tiny fame;

Here bind their temples drunk with praise,
With half a sprig of wither'd bays.
O poet, if that honour'd name

Befits fuch idle childish aim;
If VIRGIL afk thy facred care,
If HORACE charm thee, oh forbear
To fpoil with facrilegious hand,
The glories of the CLASSIC land:
Nor fow thy dowlas on the SATTIN,
Of their pure uncorrupted Latin.
Better be native in thy verfe,

What is FINGAL but genuine Erse?
Which all fublime fonorous flows,
Like HERVEY'S thoughts in drunken prose,
Hail, SCOTLAND, hail, to thee belong
All pow'rs, but most the pow'rs of fong;
Whether the rude unpolish'd Erfe
Stalk in the buckram Profe or Verfe,
Or bonny RAMSAY please thee mo',
Who fang fae fweetly aw his woe.
If ought (and fay who knows fo well)
The fecond-fighted Mufe can tell,

The happy LAIRDS fhall laugh and fing,
When ENGLAND'S GENIUS droops his wing.

So

So fhall thy foil new wealth disclose,

So thy own THISTLE choak the ROSE.
But what comes here? Methinks I see
A walking univerfity.

See how they prefs to crofs the TWEED,
And strain their limbs with eager speed!
While SCOTLAND, from her fertile fhore,
Cries, On my fons, return no more.

Hither they hafte with willing mind,
Nor caft one longing look behind;
On ten-toe carriage to falute,

The k-, and q―n, and EARL OF BUTE.
No more the gallant Northern fons
Spout forth their ftrings of Latin puns;
Nor course all languages to frame,
The quibble fuited to their name;
As when their ancestors be-vers'd,

That glorious STUART, JAMES the FIRST.
But with that elocution's GRACE,
That oratorial flashy Lace,

Which the fam'd Irish TOMMY PUFF,
Would fow on fentimental stuff;
Twang with a sweet pronunciation,
The flow'rs of bold imagination.
MACPHERSON leads the flaming van,
LAIRD of the new Fingalian clan;
While JACKY HOME brings up the rear,
With new-got penfion neat and clear
Three hundred English pounds a year.

}

While

34

While fifter PEG, our ancient Friend,
Sends MACS and DONALDS without end;
TO GEORGE awhile they tune their lays,
Then all their choral voices raife,

To heap their panegyric wit on

Th' illuftrious chief, and our NORTH BRITON,
Hail to the THANE, whofe patriot skill
Can break all nations to his will;

Mafter of sciences and arts,

MACENAS to all men of parts;
Whose foft'ring hand, and ready wit,
Shall find us all in places fit;

So fhall thy friends no longer roam,
But change to meet a settled home.

Hail mighty THANE, for SCOTLAND born,

To fill her almoft empty horn:

Hail to thy ancient glorious ftem,

NOT THEY from Kings, BUT KINGS FROM THEM.

THE

THE CIT'S COUNTRY BOX, 1757

Vos fapere folos aio bene vivere, quorum,
Confpicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis.

TH

HE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural fhade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair,
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in clofely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to fmile!
And as they flowly jog together,
The Cit commends the road and weather;
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she fees,
Admires its views, its fituation,
And thus fhe opens her oration.
What fignify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human ftrength can bear.

D 2

HOR.

One

Indeed, my

dear, you break

apace:

And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise and country air,
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row;
He's a good man, indeed 'tis true,
But not fo warm, my dear, as you :
And folks are always apt to fneer-
One would not be out-done my dear!

Sir Traffic's name fo well apply'd
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmoft deference to his wife.
Confefs'd her arguments had reafon,
And by th' approaching summer season,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his Country Box.

Some three or four mile out of town,
(An hour's ride will bring you down,)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road:
And fo convenient does it lay,
The stages pafs it ev'ry day;
And then fo fnug, fo mighty pretty,
To have an house so near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're fet down at the very door.

Well then, fuppofe them fix'd at last,
White-washing, painting, scrubbing past,

Hugging