Thefe houses fit for wights gane mad,
I faw cramm'd fou as they cou'd had;
While little fauls funk with defpair,
Implor'd cauld death to end their care.
But now a sweeter scene I view,
Time has, and time fhall prove it true;
For fair Aftrea moves frae heav'n,
And shortly shall make a' odds even :
The honeft man fhall be regarded,
And villains as they ought rewarded.
The fetting moon and rofie dawn
Bespeak a fhining day at hand;
A glorious fun fhall soon arise,
To brighten up Britannia's skies:
Our king and fenate shall engage
To drive the vultures off the ftage;
Trade then fhall flourish, and ilk art
A lively vigour fhall impart
To credit languishing and famifht,
And Lombard-street shall be replenisht.
Got fafe afhore after this blaft,
Britons shall smile at follies paft.
God grant your Lordship joy and health,
Lang days, and rowth of real wealth;
Safe to the land of cakes heav'n send ye,
And frae cross accidents defend
THE SATYR'S COMIC PROJECT
FOR RECOVERING A BANKRUPT STOCK-JOBBER.
On the fhore of a low-ebbing fea*,
A fighing young jobber was seen,
Staring wifhfully at an old tree,
Which grew on the neighbouring green.
There's a tree that can finish the ftrife
And diforder that wars in my breast,
What need one be pain'd with his life,
When a halter can purchase him reft?
Sometimes he would stamp and look wild,
Then roar out a terrible curfe
On bubbles that had him beguil'd,
And left ne'er a doit in his purse.
A fatyr that wander'd along,
With a laugh to his raving reply'd;
The favage malicioufly fung,
And jok'd while the stock-jobber cry'd.
* From the beginning to the 20th line, fing to the tune of "Colin's Complaint."-From the 21ft line, where the fatyr begins to fpeak, fing to the tune of "The kirk wad let me
To mountains and rocks he complain'd,
His cravat was bath'd with his tears;
The fatyr drew near like a friend,
And bid him abandon his fears:
Said he, Have ye been at the fea,
And met with a contrary wind,
That rail.at fair Fortune fo free?
you
Don't blame the poor goddess, fhe 's blind.
Come hold up thy head, foolish wight,
I'll teach thee the lofs to retrieve;
Obferve me this project aright,
And think not of hanging, but live.
Hecatiffa conceited and old,
Affects in her airs to feem young,
Her jointure yields plenty of gold,
And plenty of nonsense her tongue.
Lay fiege to her for a fhort space,
Ne'er mind that fhe 's wrinkled or grey;
Extol her for beauty and grace,
And doubt not of gaining the day.
In wedlock you fairly may join,
And when of her wealth you are sure,
Make free with the old woman's coin,
And purchase a sprightly young w—
BEING A SATIRE ON SCOTS POETRY
As Dryden justly term'd poetic found,
A pacing Pegasus on carpet ground:
Rofcommon's nervous sense your verses yield,
A courfer bounding o'er the furrow'd field:
The track purfue, that thinking Scots may fee
The comprehenfive English energy.
Scotch Maggy may go down at Aberdeen,
Where bonnets, bag-pipers, and plaids are seen ;
But fuch poor gear no harmony can fuit,
Much fitter for a Jew's trump than a lute.
Low bells, not lyres, the Highland cliffs adorn,
Macklean's loud halloo, or Mackgregor's horn.
Sooner fhall China yield to earthen, ware,
Sooner fhall Abel teach a finging bear,
Than English bards let Scots torment their ear.
Who think their ruftic jargon to explain,
For anes is once; lang, long; and two is twain;
Let them to Edinburgh foot it back,
And add their poetry to fill their pack;
While you, the fav'rite of the tuneful Nine,
Make English deeds in English numbers shine :
Leave Ramfay's clan to follow their own ways,
And while they mumble thistles, wear the bays.
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