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 beavier groans!
Your pardon, Sir, for this digreffion,
I maift forgat my Dedication;
But when Divinity comes crofs me,
My readers ftill are fure to lose me.

So, Sir, you fee 'twas nae daft vapour,
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 fomething like yourfel.

Then patronize them wi' your favor,

And

your

Petitioner fhall ever

I had amaift faid, ever pray,

But that's a word I need nae fay:

For prayin I hae little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-fweer, an' wretched ill o't;

But I'fe repeat each poor man's pray'r,

That kens or hears about

you, Sir

}

May ne'er Misfortune,s gowling bark,

• Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk!

May ne'er his gen'rous honeft heart,

For that fame gen'rous spirit 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 braw Fellows, ftout an able,
• To ferve their King an' Country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!

• 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 beltow!

I will not wind a long conclufion, With complimentary effufion; But whilst your wishes 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 mifchnames,

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am,

Your humble fervant 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 giv'n,

lf, in the vale of humble life,
The victim fad of Fortune's ftrife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my Mafter dear,
If friendlefs, low, we meet together,

Then, Sir, your hand-my Friend and Brother!

TO A

LOUSE,

On feeing one on a Lady's Bonnet at Church.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!

Your impudence protects you fairlie:

I canna fay but ye ftrunt rarely,

Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely
On fic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blaftit wonner,
Detefted, fhunn'd, by faunt an' finner,
How daur ye fet your fit upon her,

Sae fine a Lady!

Gae fomewhere else and feek your dinner,

On fome poor body.

Swith, in fome beggar's haffet fquattle; There ye may creep, and fprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle

In fhoals and nations

Whare born nor bane ne'er daur unfettle

;

Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' fight,
Below the fatt'rels, fnug and tight;
Na faith yê yet! ye'll no be right;

Till ye've got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height

O' Mifs's bonnet.

My footh! right bauld ye fet your nose out, grozet:

As plump an' gray as onie

O for fome rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red fmeddum,

I'd gie ye fic a hearty dofe o't,

Wad drefs

your

droddum!

I wad na been furpriz'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy, Or ablins fome bit duddie boy,

On's wyliecoat;

But Mifs's fine Lunardi! fie!

How daur

you

do't?

O, Jenny, dinna tofs your head,

An' fet your beauties a' abread!

Ye little ken what curfed speed

The blaftie's makin',

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!