But there are such who court the tuneful nine-
Heavens! should the branded character be mine,
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows,
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose,
Mark, how their lofty, independent spirit
Soars on the spurning wing of injured merit!
Seek not the proofs in private life to find!
Pity, the best of words should be but wind!
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends,
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends.
In all the clamorous cry of starving want,
They dun benevolence with shameful front;
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays,
They persecute you all your future days!
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain,
My horny fist assume the plough again;
The piebald jacket let me patch once more;
On eighteen pence a week I've liv'd before.
Though thanks to heaven, I dare even that last shift;
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift;
That placed by thee upon the wished-for height,
Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight,
My Muse inay imp her wing for some sublimer flight.
LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg
Dull, listless, teased, dejected and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest.)
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
(It sooths poor Misery hearkening to her tale)
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed,
And doubly curse the luckless, rhyming trade!
Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground;
Thou gi'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.
Foxes and statesmen, subtle wiles insure;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure.
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug.
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But oh! the bitter step-mother, and hard,
To thy poor fenceless, naked child-the Bard,
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horns:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness, comfortable fur,
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side;
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
Critics-appall'd I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.
His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear: Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in the unequal strife, The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!
So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd,
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lie senseless of each tuggin bitch's son.
O Dulness! portion of the truly blest;
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober, selfish ease they sip it up;
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder "some folks" de not starve.
The grave sage here thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad, worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are Fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.
Not so the idle Muses, mad-cap train,
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell.
I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a Poet's, Husband's, Father's fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, GLENCAIRN, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd at noon appears, And ieft us darkling in a world of tears ;) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! FINTRA, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life, and sooth his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death.
ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.
I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.
Thou orb of day, thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!
WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD OFFENDED
THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?
Mine was the insensate frenzied part,
Ah why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
"Tis thine to pity and forgive.
WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.
KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This monie a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumblie Dutch were doing;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt;
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Pofand, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin,
How libbet Italy was singin;
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Where sayin or takin aught amiss
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game,
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him.
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a-ses yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earl Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-gins/ If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, Was threshin still at hissies' tails, Or if he has grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser, A' this and mair I never heard of; And but for you I might despair'd of So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray, a' guid things may attend you! Ellisland, 1790.
TO MRS. DUNLOP, ON A NEW YEAR'S DAY.
THIS day, Time winds the exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again;
I see the auld bauld-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion,
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
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