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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'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 just a carnal inclination,

Morality, thou deadly bane,
Thy tens o'thousands thou haft slain !
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral Mercy, Truth, and Justice !

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back ;
Steal thro' a winnock frạe a wh-re,
But point the Rake that taks the door ;
Be to the Poor like onie .whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane:

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-spread 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 steady, sturdy, staunch Believer.

Oye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! Ye fons of Heresy and Error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When Ruin, with his sweeping befom, Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him :

While

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While o'er the Harp pale Mis’ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans !

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maift forgat my Dedication ;
But when Divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, you see '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 yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:

For

For prayin I hae little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'fe repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir

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May ne'er Misfortune's gowling bark, • Howl thro' the dwelling o’the Clerk!

May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, * For that fame gen'rous fpirit 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 Lasses round their table, * And seven braw Fellows, stout an' able,

To serve 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 ; E 4

• Till

• Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe,
• When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
• The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.'

I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion : But whilft your wishes and endeavours, Are bleft with Fortune's smiles and favours, I am, Dear Sir, with zeal moft fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.

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 servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the Poor! But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!

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