Ye'll get the best o' moral works,

'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The Gentleman in word and deed,

It's no thro' terror of D-mn-t--n;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain !
Vain is his hope, whofe ftay and truft is
In moral Mercy, Truth, and Juftice!

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 whunftane,
And haud their noses to the grunftane:

Ply

Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;

No matter, ftick to found believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile

graces,

Wi' weel-fpread looves, an' lang, wry faces;
Grunt up a folemn, lengthen'd groan,

And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A fteady, sturdy, ftaunch Believer.

O ye wha leave the fprings of C-lv-n,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye fons of Heresy and Error,

Ye'll fome day squeel in quaking terror!

When Vengeance draws the fword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath;

When Ruin, with his sweeping befom,

Just 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 heavier groans

Your pardon, Sir, for this digreffion,
I maift forgat my Dedication;
But when Divinity comes cross me,
My readers still 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 favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaift faid, ever pray,

But that's a word I need na fay:

}

For

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!

6

May ne'er his gen'rous, honeft heart,

For that fame gen'rous spirit smart !

May K******'s far-honoured name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,

• Till H*******s, at least a dizen,

Are frae their nuptial labours risen :
• Five bonnie Laffes round their table,
And seven braw Fellows, ftout an' able,
To ferve their King and 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 bestow,'

I will not wind a lang conclufion,
Wi' complimentary effufion :

But whilft 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 mistakes, and black mischances,
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,