Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 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 catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door: Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; O ye wha leave the springs of C-l-n, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication; But when divinity comes cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me. So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my work I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to You: Because (ye need na tak it ill) I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronise them wi' your favour, I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; "May ne'er misfortune's gowling 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 honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till H*******'s, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonnie lasses round their table, 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 endeavours Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant. But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) For who would humbly serve the poor! If, in the vale of humble life, TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie! Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner. |