A

DEDICATION.

ΤΟ

G***** H*******, Esq.

EXPECT

na, Sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,

To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,

An' fprung o' great an' noble bluid,

VOL. II.

E

Because

Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye,

Wi' mony a fulfome, finfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I ftop fhort,

For fear your modefty be hurt.

This

may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them what Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefou; For me! fae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I fhall fay, an' that's nae flatt'rin, Its juft fic Poet, an' fic Patron.

The Poet, fome guid Angel help him, Or elfe, I fear fome ill ane skelp him! He may do weel for a' he's done yet,

But only he's no juft begun yet.

The

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be,

He's juft-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa fee a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,

What aince he fays he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;

And rafcals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As Mafter, Landlord, Husband, Father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly Symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature,
Of our poor, finfu', corrupt Nature:

Ye'll get the beft o' moral works,

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

Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy.

That's 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 juft a carnal inclination,

Morality, thou deadly bane,

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

No-ftretch 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 nofes to the grunftane:

Ply

Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;

No matter, stick 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 fqueel in quaking terror!

When Vengeance draws the fword in wrath,

And in the fire throws the sheath ;

When Ruin, with his fweeping befom,

Juft frets till Heav'n commiffion gies him: