Defcend, ye chilly, fmothering Snows! • Vengeful malice, unrepenting, 'Than heaven-illumin'd Man on brother man bestows! See ftern oppreffion's iron grip, • Or mad Ambition's gory hand, • Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale. 'How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her fide, • The parafite empoifoning her ear, • With all the fervile wretches in the rear, * Looks o'er proud Property extended wide; 'And eyes the fimple, ruftic Hind, 'Whofe toil upholds the glittring show, 'A creature of another kind, Some coarfer fubftance unrefin'd, 'Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below! 'Where, where is Love's fond tender throe, With lordly Honour's lofty brow, Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 'Can harbour, dark, the feliifh aim, To blefs himself alone! • Mark Maiden-innocence a prey To love pretending snares, This boasted Honor turns away, • Shunning foft Pity's rifing sway! • Regardless of the Tears and unavailing pray'rs! Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's fqualid neft, She ftrains your infant to her joyless breast, • And with a Mother's fears fhrinks at the rocking • blast! Oh, ye! who funk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, • Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o'er his flumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, • Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! • Guilt, erring Man, relenting view! • But fhall thy legal rage pursue The Wretch, already crushed low I heard nae mair for Chanticleer! Shook off the pouthery fnaw, And hail'd the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth imprefs'd my mind Thro' all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles GOD. EPISTLE T DAV IE, A BROTHER POET. January W I. HILE winds frae off Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving fnaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I fet me down to pass the time While frofty winds blaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the Great-folk's gift, Their roomy fire-fide; To fee their cursed pride. II. It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep, at times, frae being four, But Pavie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, Is only but to beg. III. To lie in kilos and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtlefs, great diftrefs! Yet then content could make us bleft; Ev'n then, fometimes, we'd fuatch a tađe O'trueft happiness, The honeft heart that's free frae à’ Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', |