Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding, The Muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil, Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd! And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, Ana sock or buskin skelp alang To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives But thee, Theocritus! wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches: Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O' heathen tatters: I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lear, And rural grace; And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share Yes! there is ane, a Scottish callan! The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays, Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; That charm that can the strongest quell, PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND, ON NEW-YEAR DAY EVENING. No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste - the more's the pity! Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home. But not for panegyric I appear, I come to wish you all a good new-year! Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! That, tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, Last, tho' not least, in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heav'n's peculiar care! To you auld Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers, bliss to give and to receive! - -now. For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavors, With grateful pride we own your many favors: And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms trn'v fee' it PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MON DAY, APRIL 16, 1787. WHEN, by a gen'rous public's kind acclaim, Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, Here holds her search by heav'n-taught reason's beam * The Man of Feeling, written by Mr. M'Kenzie. |