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Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the foreft, and one fpurns the ground:
Thou giv'ft the ass his hide, the snail his fhell,
Th' envenomed wafp, victorious, guards his cell.-
Thy minions, kings defend, controul, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.-
Foxes and ftatefmen, fubtile wiles enfure;
The cit and polecat ftink, and are fecure.
Toads with their poifon, doctors with their drug,
'The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug.
Even filly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter ftep-mother and hard,
To thy poor fenceless, naked child-the bard!
A thing unteachable in world's skill,

And half an idiot too, more helpless still,
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated fight to fhun;
No horns, but thofe by lucklefs Hymen worn,
And thofe, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trufty cur,
Clad in rich Dulnefs' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blaft from every fide:
Vampyre bookfellers drain him to the heart,
And fcorpion Critics cureless venom dart.

Crities

-appalled, I venture on the name,

Thofe cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody diffectors, worfe than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expofe.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung
By blockhead's daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By mifcreants torn, who ne'er one sprig muft wear:
Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life.

Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each Mufe that glorious once inspired,
Low funk in fqualid, unprotected age,
Dead, even refentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Critic's rage!

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So, by fome hedge, the generous fteed deceafed, For half-ftarved fnarling curs a dainty feast; - By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, fenfelefs of each tugging bitch's fon,

O Dulness! portion of the truly bleft!
Calm fheltered haven of eternal rest!
Thy fons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high fhe fills the, golden cup,
With fober selfish eafe" they fip it up:
Confcious the bounteous meed they well deferve,

They only wonder "fome folks" do not starve.

The grave fage hern thus eafy picks his frog,
And thinks the Mallard a fad worthless dog.
When disappointment fnaps the clue of hope,
And thro' difaftrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance fluggishly they bear,
And juft conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, paffive to the tempeft's fhocks,
Strong on the fign-poft ftands the ftupid ox.

Not fo the idle Mufes' mad-cap train, Nor fuch the workings of their moon-ftruck brain; In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in foaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentlefs and fevere, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one ftrong hold of hope is loft, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in duft; ; (Fled, like the fun eclips'd at noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer! F*****, my other ftay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his fun go down; May blifs domeftic smooth his private path ; Give energy to life; and foothe his lateft breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

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AE

AND FOLLY STARE!

CANTO I.

E bony morning, clear and funny, Our trades, wha ay like to be funny, And spend a wee flight o' their money On ufquabae,

Forgather'd, for their + Siller Gunny

To shute that day.

ANON.

This and the following Poem, Hallow E'en, (both much in the style of Burns') are the Production of a Scottish Bard of the name of JOHN MAIN.

†The Silver Gun was presented by one of our Scots monarchs to the incorporated trades of Dumfries, the practice of fhooting for which is no lefs ancient than that for the Silver Arrow, obferved at Edinburgh. To promote a thirst for military atchieve. ments feems to have been the original intention; to attain which, it was to be shot for once every two years; but, from the great expence with which this cuftom is attended, it has not been fo frequently obferved of late.

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Wi' hat as black as ony raven,

Weel powther'd wiggie, beard new shaven,
And ilka kind o' cleeding having

In trim array,

Furth cam ilk ane, fome cheap year's faving To ware that day.

Fair fa' them, honeft cadgie carles, Lang may they lieve, ay free o' quarrels, And tipple aye frae gude tight barrels,

For, be my certie,

They were as braw as ony earls,

And e'en right hearty.

Nae feck o' fowk could boast mae dainties; A'beit our lairds now rack their renties, Whilk gars our canty cock-a-benties

Wear hodden-grey;

Yet ilka journeyman and 'prentice

Was fnod that day.

For, as they gaen alang the cawsey, Wi' ilka thing fae trig and gawfy,

They flaw the heart frae mony a laffie,

Right blate away,

Whilk gart them, wha afore were faucy,

Look doilt that day.

As gen'rals aft their troops conveen,

To fee they a' be trig and clean;

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