Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; The lion and the bull thy care have found, But Oh! thou bitter ftep-mother and hard, And half an idiot too, more helpless still, Crities -appalled, I venture on the name, Thofe cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, } 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! They only wonder "fome folks" do not starve. The grave fage hern thus eafy picks his frog, 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! 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. Wi' hat as black as ony raven, Weel powther'd wiggie, beard new shaven, 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; |