Printed by John & Peter Wilson.
To the Right Honourable Flora, Countess of Loudoun, the following poems are with permission, humbly inscribed, by your Ladyship’s ever grateful, and obedient humble servant, Janet Little.
- Boyd Alexander, Eſq. of Southbar
- Mrs. Alexander, ditto
- Mrs. Alexander of Ballamile
- Mr. Robert Ainſley, writer, Edinburgh
- Mrs Arnot of Dalwhatſwood
- Mrs. Auſtine, Edinburgh
- Mr. Armſtrong, Braikwoodlees
- Mr. William Armſtrong, writer, Langholm
- Mr. John Armſtrong, Eives
- Mr. John Armſtrong, Wier
- Mr. John Aitchiſon, Annan
- Mr. John Aitchiſon, Newbic
- Mr. Thomas Archibald, Ardry
- Mr. Francis Allwood, Shuttleſton
- Mr. Robert Allan, Catrine
- Mr. Andrew Anderſon, Glaſgow
- Mr. Robert Allaſon, ditto
- Robert Anderſon, Eſq. of Borland
- Mr. William Andrew, Oldhall
- Mr. Thomas Aiton, Woodhead
- Mr. James Aitken, Cairn
- Mr. Alexander Ainſley, Prince’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mr. James Alexander, Union Bank, Paiſley
- Mr. William Alexander, manufacturer, ditto
- Mr. John Andrew of Coldſtream
- Dr. Adair, Edinburgh
- Miſs Adair, ditto
- Honourable Mr. Boyle, Irvine
- Honourable Mrs. Boyle, ditto
- Sir John Hunter Blair
- T. Boyle, Eſq. of Shouilſton
- Robert Baillie Eſq. of Mayvill
- Miſs Leſly Baillie
- Mrs. Baillie of Canal-bank
- James Boſwell, Eſq. of Auchinleck
- Richard Bouſiher, Eſq. of Bath
- William Blair Eſq. of Blair
- Mrs. Blair of ditto
- Mrs Buſhbie, Tinwaldowns, 2 copies
- Miſs Buſhbie
- Thomas Beattie Eſq. of Cruvie
- Alexander Benton Eſq. of Lamberton
- George James Bell, Eſq. advocate, Edinburgh
- James Buchannan, Eſq.
- Alexander Brown, Eſq.
- Mr. A. Blair, writer to the ſignet, Edinburgh
- Mr. David Balfour, writer to the ſignet, ditto
- Rev. Mr. Thomas Briſbane, Dunlop
- Mr. Hugh Breckenridge, of Daldarick
- Mr. William Bell, Argyle ſtreet, Glaſgow, 4 copies
- Miſs Bell, 2 copies
- Mr. James Bell, 2 copies
- Mr. William Balfour, Glaſgow
- Mr. Blair, George’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mrs. Balmain, Hill ſtreet, ditto
- Miſs Balmain
- Mrs. Buchannan, Sydorf, Hanover ſtreet
- Mrs. Bell, Queen’s ſtreet
- Mr. James Brown, Loudoun kirk
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- Mr. John Begbie, Kilmarnock
- Miſs Boſland, Paiſley
- Mr. William Brown, writer, Kilmarnock
- Mr. James Brown, Blacklaw
- Mr. James Brown, merchant, Kilmarnock
- Robert Borland, Eſq
- Mr. William Babington
- Miſs J. Brown of Waterhauſe
- Miſs M. Brown, ditto
- Mr. Andrew Brown, writer, Stewarton
- Mr. John Beg, Cairn 009 A5r 9
- Mr. James Bell, Ecclefechen
- Mr. C. Baillie, Matterſtain
- Mr. David Blackwood, Stewarton
- Mr. Robert Baird, Drumkelly
- Mr. Richard Beattie, Lochmaben
- Mr. Stairs Beck, Charlesfield
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- Mr. John Burle, cotton manufacturer, Annan
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- Mr. Patrick Blackſtock, Woodſide
- Mr. David Blair
- Mr. Thomas Buchannan, merchant, Glaſgow
- Mr. James Buchannan, merchant, ditto
- Mr. Robert Boyd, do
- Mr. John Baird, LIII. Regiment
- Mr. James Baird, Niddrie
- Mrs Catharine Beattie, Ballamile
- Mr. Robert Burns, Dumfries
- Lady Elizabeth Creichton, 2 copies
- Lady Mary Cameron
- Sir William Cunningham of Robertland
- Miſs J. F. Crawford, 2 copies
- Mr Cameron
- Ronald Crawford, Eſq of Friſky
- Mrs. Cunningham junior, of Auchenſkeith
- Peter Clark, Eſq. of Holms
- Mrs. Clark, ditto
- Arthur Campbell, Eſq. of Auchmunnoch
- Colonel J. W. Crawford of Crawfordland
- George Cranſton Eſq. advocate, Edinburgh
- David Cathcart, Eſq advocate, ditto
- Miſs Jane Cathcart
- James Campbell, Eſq. ditto
- John Carſe, Eſq. of Gardrum
- Henrick Cape, Eſq. Glasgow
- Miſs Carr, Edinburgh
- Mrs. Craigie, Hay ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mrs. Campbell of Netherplace
- Mrs. Clark, Standingſtone, Cumberland
- Willifred Clark, ditto
- Ewan Clark, ditto 010 A5v 10
- Mr. James Cathcart, Queen’s ſtreet, Edinburgh
- S. Crawford, Tuland
- Mr. Cunningham Corbet, Glaſgow
- Mr. William Clydeſdale, Glaſgow
- Mr. William Currie, ditto
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- Mr. James Campbell, ditto
- Mr. Colin Campbell, ditto
- Mr. James Campbell, for D.
- Mr. James Carruthers, Mouſwald
- Mr. William Caldwell of Middleton
- Mr. Hume Cranſton, Edinburgh
- Mr. John Clark, XXXV. Regiment
- Mrs Cunningham, Langſhaw
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- Mr. CeorgeGeorge Chriſtie, Paiſley, 2 copies
- Miſs Chriſtie, do.ditto
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- Mrs. Campbell, Waterhauſe
- Mr. Thomas Corſan, Druggiſt, Kilmarnock
- Mr. M. Cunningham of Seabank
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- Mr. Allan Cochrane
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- Mr. William Chalmers, bookſeller, Dumfries, 2 copies
- Mr. James Clindinning, ditto
- Mr. William Cleland, Glaſgow
- Mrs. Carruthers, Supplebank
- Miſs J. Carruthers, Cummertrees
- Mr. Charles Ewart, Dalton
- Mr. James Corbet
- Mr. William Carmichael, Craigie
- Mr. Robert Carlyle
- Mr. Walter Cook
- Mr. John Cathcart, Moffat
- Mr. Charles Crawford, Killhead
- Mr. James Carruthers
- Mr. Walter Cowan, Bygate
- Mr. Jardine Combe, Eccleſechan 011 A6r 11
- Mr. Alexander Craig, Dumfries
- Mr. George Clapperton, ſurgeon, Annan
- Mr. Thomas Chalmers, Hannah
- Earl of Dumfries, 2 copies
- Counteſs of Dumfries, 2 copies
- Counteſs of Dalhouſie
- Right Honourable Lord Dair, St. Mary’s Iſle
- Lady Iſabella Douglas
- Lady Eleonora Dalziel
- Lady Douglas of Killhead, 2 copies
- Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, 7 copies
- Major Dunlop, 6 copies
- Miſs. K. Dunlop, 7 copies
- Miſs A. E. Dunlop, 2 copies
- George Douglſs, Eſq; of Roadenhead, 2 copies
- Colonel Alexander Dundaſs
- Mr. William Dundaſs
- Miſs Dundaſs of Dundaſs
- James Dewar, Eſq; of Vogrie
- Captain Dumbar, Douglas
- Mr. William Dalziel, writer to the ſignet, Edinburgh
- David Douglas Eſq; advocate
- Robert Davidſon, Eſq; advocate
- Mr. James Donaldſon, ſenior, merchant, Glaſgow
- Mr. David Dale, junior, ditto
- Mr. James Donaldſon, junior, ditto
- James Duncaſter, Eſq;
- Rev. Mr. Jacob Dickſon, Mouſwald
- Rev. Mr. David Dickſon, St. Mungo
- Rev. Mr. James Dewar, Fenwick
- Rev. Mr. Duncan, Ardroſſan
- Mr. James Douglas, Loudoun
- Mr. Dalziel, Queen ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mr. James Duncan, ſurgeon, ditto
- Miſs Davies, Dumfries
- Mr. Matthew Dickie of Knockingdale
- Mr. Robert Dunlop, Aurthurby
- Mr James Dobie, Beith
- Mr. John Dun, Loanhead
- Mr. James Dunlop of Loanhead
- Mr. Thomas Dunlop of Aiket 012 A6v 12
- Mr. Abraham Dickſon, Harrington
- Mr. Thomas Dickſon, Mouſwald
- Mr. John Dalrymple, Branthat
- Mrs. Janet Deens, Hitchel
- Mr. Thomas Dickſon, Annan
- Mr. Robert Dickſon, ditto
- Countess Dowager of Errol
- Governor Edmonſton, George’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- William Erſkine, Eſq. advocate
- John Elliot, Eſq. of Whitehaugh
- Mr. David Ewart, Chancery office, Edinburgh
- Mr. James Elliot, M.D.
- Mr. J. Elliot of Flat
- Mr. Elliot of Dunlie
- Mr. John Elliot of Park
- Mr William Elliot, George’ ſquare, Edinburgh
- Mr. James Eaſton, ſtudent of Divinity, Mouſwald
- Mr. Archibald Edmonſton, Edinburgh
- Mr. Walter Ewen, merchant, Glaſgow
- Colonel William Fullarton of Fullarton, 2 copies
- Mrs. Fullarton
- S. M. Fullarton of Bartonholm
- Mr. Ferguſſon, Beith
- Mrs. Ferguſſon, ditto
- Miſs H. Ferguſſon, ditto
- James Ferguſſon Eſq. advocate, Edinburgh, 5 copies
- Robert Ferguſſon, Eſq. Tennant, 2 copies
- John Fletcher, Eſq. of Dowings
- Mr. John Ferguſſon, Glaſgow
- Rev. Mr. James Foſter, A. B. Engliſh Chapel, Glaſgow
- Rev. Mr. Peter Ferguſſon, Inch
- Mr. Alexander Fowlds, Kilmarnock
- Mr. Foſter, Paſterhead
- Miſs Fiſher, Dykemount
- Mr. James Fiſher, Minive, 2 copies
- T. Ferrier, Eſq. George’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Miſs Ferrier, ditto
- Mr Archibald Fletcher, ditto
- Mr. Robert Flemen, ditto 013 A7r 13
- Mr. Allan Forſyth, ditto
- Mr James Fairly, Cairn
- Mr. Alexander Ferguſſon, Stewarton
- Mr. John Forreſt, Annan
- Earl of Glaſgow
- Counteſs of Glaſgow
- Honourable Francis Grey, 7 copies
- General Gordon
- Lady Margaret Grierſon, Rochal
- George Greenlaw, Eſq. of Hilton
- John Gordon, Eſq. of Carleton
- Archibald Grahame, Eſq. Glaſgow
- Alexander Gardiner, writer to the Signet
- Dr Robert Glaſgow of St Vincents
- Rev. Mr. George Gordon, Sorn, 2 copies
- Mrs. Gordon, 2 copies
- Rev Mr. Greenfield, Edinburgh
- Miſs Guthry, Argyle ſquare, ditto
- Rev. Mr James Grant, Libertone
- Mr James Galloway, writer, Glaſgow
- Mr. John Geddis, Glaſswork, ditto
- Mr. James Gregg, writer, Kilmarnock
- Mr. Thomas Greenſhields, ditto
- Mr. John Greenſhields
- Mr. A. Gillian, London
- Mr. A. Gillies, Edinburgh
- Mr. James Gibſon, ditto
- Miſs Graham, Dumfries
- Mr Archibald Gordon
- Mr Robert Grierſon, B. D Edinburgh, 2 copies
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- Miſs Charlotte Grant
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- Mrs Gordon, Greenlaw
- Mr. George Gregg, Hoddam Caſtle
- Mr George Grahame, merchant, Langholm
- Mr. James Gibſon, Ecclefechan
- Mr. John Glover, Hillhead
- Mr. Walter Graham, Powfoot
- Mr James Gibſon, Caldwell
- Miſs J. Gemmel, Dunlop 014 A7v 14
- Mr. William Guthrie, Harperland
- Mr. J. Guthrie, Dollars
- Mr. William Gordon, Edinburgh
- Mr John Grahame, Paiſley
- Mr. J. Graham, manufacturer, ditto
- Mr. Thomas Gemmel, Caldwell
- Mr. John Goven, Patterhill
- Earl of Hume
- Earl of Hopeton
- Counteſs of Hopeton, 4 copies
- Lady Margaret Hope
- Honourable Charles Hope
- Lady Charlotte Hay
- Lady Iſabella Anne Hay
- Sir James Hall, Bart. Dunglaſs
- William Hamilton, Eſq. Edinburgh
- Dr. William Hamilton, Kilmarnock
- J. Hunter, Eſq. writer to the ſignet, Edinburgh, 2 copies
- Alexander Hamilton,Eſq. of Grange
- William Hamilton, Eſq. of Middlepart
- Mr Robert Hamilton, Edinburgh
- Mr James Hagart, do.ditto
- Mr. Thomas Hopekirk, do.ditto
- Mr Francis Howden, do.ditto
- Mr. James Howden, do.ditto
- Rev. Mr. James Hall, do.ditto 2 copies
- Mr. John Hall, teacher, Glaſgow, 2 copies
- Mr John Hall, writer, do.ditto
- Rev. Mr. James Headrick, Glaſgow
- Captain George Hope, R. N.Royal Navy
- Ninian Hume Eſq. of Paxton
- Mrs. Hume of ditto
- Patrick Hume Eſq. of Wedderburn
- Miſs Hume, ditto
- Miſs M. J. Hume
- Miſs Hume, Broomhouſe
- James Hume Eſq of Newmills
- Miſs Hume, ditto
- George Hume Eſq. of Branxton
- Mr. James Hume, Edinburgh
- George Hardie, Eſq. Annan 015 A8r 15
- Miſs Hunter of Thurſton
- Miſs S. Hawthorn, Caſtlewig, Edinburgh
- Miſs C. Hawthorn, ditto
- Mrs. Hawthorn Stewart of Phiſgill
- Mrs. Henry, Bourdeaux, 8 copies
- Mr James Henderſon, Hudliſcleugh
- Mr. David Hunter, George’ ſtreet Edinburgh
- Mr. Robert Hay, Wellmeadows
- Mr. Roger Hall, Stewarton
- Miſs Hugan, Glaſgow
- Mr. James Harris, ditto
- Mr. Charles Hauſhet, Candleriggs, ditto
- Mrs. Henderſon, Camlongan
- Miſs Henderſon, ditto
- Mr. Andrew Hunter
- Mr Robert Henderſon
- Mr. C. Hope, advocate, St. Andrew’s ſquare, Edinburgh
- Mr. Simon Hall, merchant, Ecclefechan
- Mr John Henry, Surgeon, ditto
- Mr Thomas Hetherton, Stonebridge
- Mr John Hill, Winterſeugh
- Mr James Henderſon, Hightea
- Mr. Alex. Harkneſs Gotterby
- Lady G. Johnſton
- Lady Anne Johnſton
- Lady Jemima Johnſton
- Lady Lucy Johnſton
- Miſs Johnſton, Creichton ſtreet, Edinburgh
- James Johnſton, Eſq. of Alva
- Mr. James Johnſton, Blenereſſet
- Miſs Johnſton Killhead
- Miſs Catharine Johnſton, ditto
- Mrs Johnſton, Charlesfield
- Mr Robert Johnſton, Student, Edinburgh
- Mr. William Johnſton, Glaſgow
- Mr. J. Johnſton, Cummertrees
- Mr. Robert Johnſton, Kerr
- Mr. John Johnſton, Winterſeugh
- Profeſſor Jardine, Glaſgow
- Mr. John Javan, King ſtreet, do.ditto
- Mr. Chriſtopher Irvine, do.ditto 016 A8v 16
- Mr. William Irvine, Glaſgow
- Rev. Mr. Jeffery, Kilmarnock
- Mr. John Jeffrey, Edinburgh
- Mr. Henry Jamieſon, Gayfield-place
- Mr. David Jackſon, Netherrow
- Mr. William Inglis, Milnholm
- Mr. Alexander Irvine, Killhead
- Mr. Thomas Irvine, Annan
- Rev. Mr. William Kilpatrick, Dumfries
- Miſs Kincald of Kincald
- Miſs Kennedy
- Mr. James King, Aurthurly
- Mr. Thomas Kerr, Mouſwald
- Mr. George Kyle, Heughead
- Miſs Kennedy, Antigua ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mr. John King, teacher of vocal muſic
- The Counteſs of Loudoun, 12 copies
- Colonel Laurie, Bath, 6 copies
- James Pit Laurie, Eſq. Honduras, 3 copies
- Rev. Dr. Laurie, Newmilns
- Mr. Archibald Laurie, ditto, 2 copies
- Miſs B. Laurie
- Mrs. Lockhart of Carnwath
- John Lumſdair, Eſq. of Blenem
- Rev. Mr. Lauſon, Dumfries
- Miſs C. Lindſay, Burleſhall
- John Lowes, Eſq. Ridgely-hall, Northumberland, 2 copies
- Mrs. Laughton, Great Ruſſel ſtreet, Bloomſbury, London, 2 copies
- R. Lindſay, Eſq. of Bourtreehill, 2 copies
- Mr. George Lewis M‘Murdo, Broadlee
- Mr. Francis Laing, writer, Edinburgh
- Mr. David Litſter, do.ditto
- Mr. William Lyal, Glaſgow
- Mr. Laing, Paiſley
- Mr. William Lockhart, Edinburgh
- Mr. Robert Lauchlan, Eagleſham
- Mr. John Lapraik, Galſton 017 B1r 17
- Mr. David Loudoun, Ardry
- Mr. John Law, Cumberland
- Mr. William Laidlaw, mathematician, Edinburgh
- Mr. Stewart Lewis, Ecclefechan
- Mr. David Lawſon, Halton
- Mr. Alexander Lennox
- Mr. David Laing, writer, Glaſgow
- Mr. John Little, writer, Annan
- Mr. John Little, Langholm
- Miſs Grace Little, do.ditto
- Mr. William Little, Milſgate
- Mr. Robert Little, Standingſtone, 8 copies
- Mr. Robert Little, Whiſgills
- Mr. Robert Little, Whithaugh
- Mr. David Little, Branthwat
- Mr. John Little, Blough
- Sir William Maxwell of Springkell, baronet
- Lady Maxwell, do.ditto
- Lieut. David Maxwell, Broomholm
- David Monypenny, Eſq. Advocate, Edinburgh
- John M‘Farquhar, Eſq. M. S. Edinburgh
- Robert Morris, Eſq of Craig
- Hugh Morton, Eſq. of Greenbank
- James M‘Aullay, Eſq. Bath, 2 copies
- Miſs Maxwell of Polloch
- Miſs B. Maxwell, do.ditto
- William Muir, Eſq. of Caldwell, 7 copies
- Mrs. Muir of Wariſton, 7 copies
- Dr. Moor, London
- Mrs. Moor, do.ditto
- Mr. George Munro
- Miſs E. Munro
- Mr James Main, Paiſley
- Mr. Roſs M‘Key
- Mr. Charles M‘Key, Edinburgh
- Mr. William M‘Donald, do.ditto
- Mr. John Miller, do.ditto
- Mr. Wolfe Murray, do.ditto
- Mr. William Mole, do.ditto
- Mr. James Moubray, do.ditto
- Rev. Mr. Thomas Martin, Langholm B 018 B1v 18
- Rev. Mr. James M‘Millan, Torthorwald
- Mr. William M‘Farlane
- Mr. T. M‘Carter, Dr. Jeffery’s College, Glaſgow
- Mr. Robert Montgomery of Bogſton
- Mr. William M‘Niſh, poſtmaſter, Stranraer, 2 copies
- Mr. James M‘Gown, ſurgeon Stow
- Lieut. Alexander omitted1 letter‘Donald, Rodenhead
- Mrs. J. Mitchell, Friendleſshead
- Mr. J. Muir, merchant Kilmarnock
- Miſs A. M‘Laughlan, Paiſley
- Mr. Thomas M‘Culloch, Croach
- Mr. J. M‘Key, Stranraer
- Rev. Mr. J. M‘Kenzie Port Patrick
- Mr. P. M‘Dowal, Cairn
- Mr. M‘Whirter, doditto
- Mr. John Morton, Loudoun Caſtle
- Mr. James Maſon, Loudoun Kirk
- Mr. George M‘Gill, Kilmaurs
- Mr. Thomas Muir, Milſgate
- Mrs. M‘Gill of Kingſingcleuch
- Mr John M‘Kenzie, ſurgeon, Mauchline
- Mr. Matthew Morriſon, do.ditto
- Mr. William M‘Dowal, Glaſgow
- Mr. James M‘Nair, writer, do.ditto
- Peter Murdoch, Eſq.
- Mrs. Jane Marſhal, Cockbridge
- Mr. Hugh Maxwell, Dumfries
- Miſs Malcolm, Weſterkirk
- Mr. James Moffat, ſurgeon, Langholm
- Mr. Thomas Murray, Whiſgills
- Mr. James M‘Kie, Gatterbie
- Mr. John Miller, Clayhouſe
- Mr. James Moffat, Hightea
- Miſs Eliza M‘Claren, Kilhead
- Mr. Matthew Murray, merchant, Langholm
- Mr. James Moffat, Ecclefechan
- Mr. William M‘Nae, Sandbed
- Miſs M‘Cleod, George’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mrs. M‘Kie, Hanover ſtreet, do.ditto
- Mr. George M‘Intoſh, Glaſgow, 4 copies
- Mrs. M‘Intoſh, do.ditto 2 copies
- Mr. Charles M‘Intoſh
- Miſs F. M‘Intoſh
- Miſs Polſon M‘Intoſh o19 B2r 19
- Mr. John M‘Intoſh
- Mr. Andrew M‘Intoſh
- Mr. John M‘Clean, ſurgeon, Glaſgow
- Mr. James M‘Clatchie, Dumfries
- Mr. William M‘Dowall, Buchannan ſtreet, Glaſgow
- Mr John M‘Naught, do.ditto
- Mr Francis Murray, Trongate, do.ditto
- Mr John Milligan do.ditto
- Mr. William Mitchell
- Mr William Millar, Glaſgow
- Mr. Samuel M‘Caul, doditto
- Mr. Andrew Macaulay, bookſeller, do.ditto 12 copies
- Honourable Miſs Napier, Prince’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Archibald Niſbet Eſq. of Sornhill
- James Napier, Eſq. Edinburgh
- Michael Nicholſon Stewart, Eſq. of Carnock
- Mrs. Nicholſon, do.ditto
- Mr. Andrew Nixon, Langholm
- Mr. Thomas Nixon, Blinkbonny
- Mr. Neilſon
- Miſs S. Nicholis, Edinburgh
- Mrs. Ogilvie of Broomlie
- Alexander Oſburn, Eſq. Cuſtomhouſe
- Miſs Orde, George’ ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Miſs Eliza Orde, do.ditto
- Mr. J. Owen, ſchoolmaſter, Cummertrees
- Mr. Robert Orr, Paiſley
- William Parker, Eſq. of Corraith
- Mr. Parichon, London, 2 copies
- Profeſſor Playfair, Edinburgh
- Captain Archibald Paton, Glaſgow
- Mr. Robert Purdon, do.ditto
- Mr. Paiſley, teacher, Carliſle
- Mr. Andrew Pollock, A. Houſtin’s, Glaſgow
- Mr. Alexander Pearſon, Hanover ſtreet, Glaſgow
- Mr. J. Parker, junior, Kilmarnock 020 B2v 20
- Miſs Paton, Neilſton
- Mr. J. Paton, Clearmount
- Mr. P. Philips, Ruthwell
- Miſs Paterſon, Gill
- Mr. David Porteous, Oldmiln
- Mr. Andrew Pickens, Shuttleſton
- Doctor Rutherford, Edinburgh
- John Richardſon, Eſq. of Buſs, 2 copies
- William Rae, Eſq. advocate, Edinburgh
- Miſs Sophia Richardſon, Stank
- Mr. Thomas Rynd, Union Bank, Paiſley
- James Ramſay, Eſq.
- Mr. William Riddle, Glaſgow
- Mr. Stephen Rowan, do.ditto
- Mr. Alexander Rough, Ballamile
- Mr John Rankine, Boghead
- Mr. John Rankine, Caldwell
- Mr. John Robertſon, do.ditto
- Mr. J. Richmond, Loudoun-kirk
- Mr. William Roxburgh, Finwick
- Mr. James Renie, Trongate, Glaſgow
- Mr. Reid of Adamton
- Mr. Alexander Ramſay, Glaſgow
- Miſs P. Richardſon
- Mr. James Rome, Ruthwell
- Mr. James Rae, Killhead
- Mr. William Rodgerſon, Dumfries
- Rev. Mr. Reid, Mauchline
- Sir J. Sinclair of Ulſter
- Lady S. Sinclair
- Charles Sharp Eſq. of Hodam
- Mrs. Sharp, do.ditto
- Miſs Sharp, do.ditto
- William Stewart, Eſq. of Hillſide
- Mrs. Charles Stewart, illegible1 letteronteith, Cloſeburnhall, 2 copies
- James Stewart, Eſq. of Stewart-hall
- John Shaw Stewart, Eſq. of Greenock, 2 copies
- Mrs. Shaw Stewart, do.ditto 021 B3r 21
- Miſs Secombe
- Dr. Smith, phyſician, Bath
- John Scott, Eſq. of Hopeſridge
- Miſs Scott of Ancrum
- Mrs. Stewart, Argyle ſtreet, Edinburgh, 2 copies
- John Swanſon, Eſq. Glaſgow
- John Stark, Eſq. do.ditto
- Mr James Steven, junior, do.ditto
- Rev. Mr. Steven, Catrine
- Rev Mr Smith, Cummertrees
- Rev. Mr. Smith, Galſton
- Mr. Robert Speed, Edinburgh
- Mr. John Swinton, ditto
- Mr. Archibald Swinton
- Mr. William Staig
- Miſs Stevens, Edinburgh
- Mrs. Scott, Forge, Cannonby
- Mr David Scott, banker, Air
- Mr. Adam Smats, Weſtburn Fla
- Miſs Stewart, Aſhton, Edinburgh
- Mr. Charles Shaw, writer, Air
- Miſs Somervile, Kenox
- Mr. E. Sheriff, Paiſley
- Mr. Stewart, do.ditto
- Mr. Slaiter, do.ditto
- Mr. James Spence, Edinburgh
- Mr. Robert Spear, Templeton
- Mr. James Smail, Caldwell
- Mr. James Smith, Newmilns
- Mr. James Senier, Glaſgow
- Mr Thomas Stevens, Whitby
- Mr. Alex. Scott, Glasgow
- Mr Thomas Scott, Langholm
- Mr. Francis Smith, Catrine
- Mr. Peter Stewart, do.ditto
- Mr. Thomas Scott, Craiglockhart
- Mr. Moſes Steven, merchant, Glaſgow
- Mr. James Steel, Alton
- Mr John Smith, Dunlop
- Miſs Sked, Hunah
- Francis Tytler advocate, Edinburgh
- Mr. Todd, Dean ſtreet, London B3 022 B3v 22
- Mrs. Todd, Dean ſtreet, London
- Mr. James Thomſon, ſtudent of divinity, Kilmarnock
- Mrs. Trotter of Mortonhall 4 copies
- Mr. William Thomſon, teacher, Carlisſle
- Mr. J. Torrance, Catrine
- Mr. James Turnbull, Edinburgh
- Mr. George Turner, Bolton gate
- Mr. James Thomſon, Cummertrees
- Mr. Robert Turner, Ardry
- Mrs. Trother, Glaſgow
- Sir John Wedderburn, Ballendean
- Dr. Walker, Edinburgh
- Mr. J. Wilſon, junior, Glaſgow
- Mr. James Wyllie, do.ditto
- Mr Williamſon, Edinburgh
- Mr. A Wachop, ſenior, Niddry, 3 copies
- Mr. A. Wachop, junior, do.ditto, 3 copies
- Miſs M. Wachop do.ditto 2 copies
- Miſs Alice Wachop, do
- Mr. Robert Wight, Kingſknow
- Mr. Robert Wood
- Capt. Wallace of Cairnhill
- Mrs Warner, Irvine
- Mr. Alexander Walker, Air
- Mr. Samuel Watſon, Edinburgh
- Mr. David Williamſon, do.ditto
- Mrs. Watſon, Abbotſinch
- Mr. Wallace, Queen ſtreet, Edinburgh
- Mr Alexander Williamſon, Glaſgow
- Mr. J. Woodburn Shawmiln
- Mr. Alexander Wilſon, Paiſley
- Mr. Thomas Wilſon, Stewarton
- Mr J Wightman Cummertrees
- Mrs Walker, Smailholm, 2 copies
- Mr Weir, ſurgeon, Edinburgh
- Mr. William Wilſon, Birmingham
- Mr. T. Wood, Whitehall
- Mr. Dan Wilkinſon
- Mr. John Wilkinſon
- J. Wilſon, bookſeller, Kilmarnock
- P. Wilson
- Mr Vance Agnew, 3 copies
- Mrs. Vance Agnew, 4 copies
- Charles Young, Eſq. Edinburgh
- Rev. Mr James Yorkſton, Hoddam
- Mr. J. Young, merchant, Glaſgow
- Mr. William Yates, Ardry
- Mr. William Young, Shuttleſton
- Mr. Willam Yeoman
- P. 4448 l. 8 from the head, for nor, read or.
- P. 4650. line 8 from the head, for deluſive, read deciſive.
- P. 5155. laſt line, for Golanda, read Golconda.
- P. 5458. line 2. from the head, for my, read buy.
- P. 6973 line 7. from the head, for nor, read no.
- P. 8185. line 5. from the head, for expanded, read extended.
- P. 9094. line 9. from the head, for, Claudia, read Claudius.
- P. 139143 line 9. from the head, for the, read his.
- P. 159163. line 4.for of, read or.
- P. 170174. line 8.for game, read dance.
To the Countess of Loudoun.
Will gentle Loudoun deign to lend an ear,
When nature ſpeaks, and ſorrow drops a tear?
Within your walls my happineſs I found
Luxuriant flouriſh, like the plants around:
Blithe as the birds that perch on yonder ſpray,
In joyous notes, I pour’d the willing lay.
Beneath your roof theſe humble lines had birth,
Whoſe honour’d Patrons now lie low in earth;026 B5v 26
Or borne by Fate far from their native ſhore,
With ſmiles auſpicious glad my heart no more.
Here youth and beauty, innocence and love,
I joy’d to ſee, to ſerve, and to approve:
Here honour’d Age to all around did ſhow,
That virtue’s paths alone can bliſs beſtow:
Here moral leſſons ſpoke from ev’ry part,
And peace and kindneſs wrote them on my heart.
Hoary inhabitants around the place,
Whoſe faithful ſervices obtain’d that grace,
’Mid ev’ry comfort rural life affords,
Shower prayers and bleſſings on its former Lords.
To you the young are taught to lift the eye,
Mild morning ſun of their unclouded ſky.
Bleſt in a lot left nothing to deſire,
Thoſe happy ſcenes did future hopes inſpire,
That thus my life in careleſs eaſe might run,
My age ſupported by my maſter’s ſon;027 B6r 27
In him, that goodneſs, and thoſe virtues find,
Which grateful numbers meet in you combin’d.
Ah! like a changeful viſion of the night,
Thoſe ſcenes are fled, and death appals my ſight!
Where’er I turn, lamented tombs appear,
Or parting ſails extort the bitter tear!
To diſtant realms the darling child too gone;
O guard him heav’n, and let me weep alone!
For ev’ry tear, let countleſs bleſſings fall
On thy ſad mother in thy grandſire’s hall!
Forgive, fair nymph, the dictates of deſpair;
Grief flies, for comfort, to the tender fair.
The good and great, we fondly think have pow’rs,
Can charm to eaſe our ſad and anxious hours:
Elſe why to you ſhould I at Fate repine?
The friends I mourn, alas! were doubly thine!028 B6v 28
For their dear ſakes, bid lines they priz’d ſtill live,
And grant that ſhelter they no more can give.
Yet, the ſad verſe how ſhould you patronize
That wakes up anguiſh in a heart at eaſe!
For their dear ſakes my pray’rs are ever thine,
Nor can I more were your protection mine.
To The Public.
From the dull confines of a country ſhade,
A ruſtic damſel iſſues forth her lays;
There ſhe, in ſecret, ſought the Muſe’s aid,
But now, aſpiring, hopes to gain the bays.
Vain are her hopes, the ſnarling critic cries;
Rude and imperfect is her rural ſong.C 030 C1v 26
But ſhe on the public candour firm relies,
And humbly begs they’ll pardon what is wrong.
And if ſome lucky thought, while you peruſe,
Some little beauty ſtrike th’ inquiring mind;
In gratitude ſhe’ll thank th’indulgent Muſe,
Nor count her toil, where you can pleaſure find.
Upon your voice depends her ſhare of fame,
With beating breaſt her lines abroad are ſent:
Of praiſe ſhe’ll no luxuriant portion claim;
Give but a little, and ſhe’ll reſt content.
Hail meek-ey’d maid! of matchleſs worth!
Our beſt companion here on earth;
To thee ſole pow’r is giv’n,
T’illume our dark and dreary way,
As through life’s mazy path we ſtray,
And bend our ſteps to heav’n.
’Tis thine to ſmooth the rugged vale,
To ſtem the trickling tear;C2 032 C2v 28
Thy whiſpers, as the ſpicy gale,
Do drooping trav’llers cheer.
Incline thou, to ſhine now
Upon me as I go;
Thy favour ſhall ever
Alleviate my wo.
Thy preſence calms the raging ſeas,
And to the throbbing breaſt gives eaſe
Amid the tempeſt’s howl,
When waves appear as mountains high,
And foaming billows roll;
When danger, with uplifted hand,
Proclaims th’ approaching doom,
Thou gently doſt the ſtroke withſtand,
And diſſipates the gloom.
When caring, deſpairing,
And deeming all as loſt,
Thy rays will portray ſtill
The long expected coaſt.
Thou animates the hero’s flame;
To him preſents a deathleſs name
In the enſanguin’d field:
Thou doſt his nerves with valour brace,
Bids him, with bold undaunted face,
Deſtructive weapons wield.
War’s trumpet, breathing rude alarms,
Strikes terror all around;
Thy voice of fame, and honour’s charms,
Outvies the direful ſound.
When falling, appalling
The tumults wild increaſe,
On wings then, thou brings then
The harbinger of peace.
Thy power elates the ſtudent’s views;
The paths of ſcience kindly ſtrews
With never-fading flow’rs.
Depriv’d of thee, how lovers mournC3 034 C3v 30
Dejected, reſtleſs and forlorn,
In unfrequented bow’rs!
Attending ſtill on Hymen’s rites,
Thou decorates the chain;
Thy ſmile the ſprightly maid invites
And lures the youthful ſwain:
Still eaſing, and pleaſing,
When ſtern misfortune ſtares,
’Mid loſſes, and croſſes,
Thou lightens all their cares.
From life’s fair dawn to liart eve,
We all thy flatt’ring tales believe,
Enamour’d of thy art:
Thy ſoft and ſalutary voice
Gives birth to unexpected joys,
And ſoothes the bleeding heart:
And even at our lateſt hour,
When earthly comforts fly,
Thou doſt, by a ſuperior Pow’r,
Death’s terrors all defy.035 C4r 31
Not grieving, when leaving
This ſcene of dole and care,
But viewing, purſuing
A more exalted ſphere.
O Happiness! where art thou to be found?
What bow’r is bleſt with thy perpetual gleam?
From court, from cot, ev’n while they ſeek thy ſtay,
On thy ſoft pinions, rapid is thy flight.
Thy name, not ſubſtance, is to mortals known.
Repulſe from thee makes drunkards ſtand aghaſt,
Who nightly revel o’er the flowing bowl.
In vain they ſeek thy progreſs to retard,
A gueſt too noble to be thus detain’d.037 C5r 33
Thy quick elopement ſhews their ſad miſtake;
Baulks hope, and certain diſappointment brings.
Miſers for thee grope ’midſt their bags of wealth,
Nor find thy reſidence in golden ore:
Fear, anxious care, bleak av’rice, and diſtruſt,
Forbid thy acceſs to the grov’ling ſoul.
Not riches, though in gorgeous pomp array’d
With all the dazzling ſplendour of the eaſt,
Secure thee ’mongſt the gay, fantaſtic train.
Pride and Ambition, vulture-like, appear,
Gain acceſs to the op’lent maſter’s heart,
And bid defiance to thy ſacred charms,
Now ſwiftly baniſh’d from his ſumpt’ous ſeat.
Nor even the voice of honour can recal
Thy haſty ſteps: thee Pleaſure ſues in vain;
A ſtranger to the gay, licentious crowd,038 C5v 34
The giddy flutt’ring ſons of dance and ſong.
Thou to the libertine doſt ever prove
An airy phantom; mock’ſt his eager graſp;
Leaves him to cruel diſappointment’s rage,
Remorſe, deſpair, the inmates of his ſoul.
In hopes to meet thee in ſome diſtant clime,
The ardent warrior quits his native ſhore,
Inur’d to martial toil; at danger ſmiles,
And unconcern’d treads o’er the heaps of ſlain:
His en’mies fly before him; at his feet
Millions fall proſtrate, and for his mercy call:
Yet ſtill in vain he makes his court to thee;
Thou ſcarce vouchſafes him one auſpicious ſmile.
See lovers too, in yon ſequeſter’d grove,
Seek lonely walks, and ſpend their ſighs in vain,
For thee! For what? for ſome bewitching fair,039 C6r 35
Whoſe ſmiles they deem can boundleſs bliſs ſecure:
Their views contracted would thee thus confine.
Nor art thou found in Hymen’s ſacred rites,
Though ſilken cords of ſweet affection bind.
A thouſand ills encompaſs the fond pair,
And mix their ſweets with bitterneſs and wo.
Bent in purſuit, through many a devious track,
All ſeem to ſay, Succeſsleſs is the ſearch;
To nobler objects henceforth bend your view.
All hail, Religion! thou celeſtial power!
Thy force alone can ſoothe the anxious breaſt,
And quite diſpel the ſolitary gloom,
Theſe ſullen ſhades that ſteal upon the ſoul.
O let me hear thy ſalutary voice!
Thy ſacred dictates let me ſtill revere;
And ever prone in virtue’s ſteps to tread,
My hopes, my wiſhes center’d all in Him,
Whoſe hand omnipotent the world did frame.
O Thou, great Source of all ſupreme delight!
Without reluctance may I ever prove
Submiſſive to thy providential ſway,
To know and to obſerve thy laws divine,
My ſole ſolicitude.
How mean ſoe’er my humble ſtation be,
Content and calm ſerenity of mind,
Shall pave my paths along the rugged vale;
And when the vain deluſive viſion’s paſt,
Then happineſs, in all its vaſt extent
Unmeaſurable, ignorant of bounds,
Shall through eternal ages be my lot;
The lot of all whoſe hope is fix’d on thee.
Upon a Young Lady’s Leaving Loudoun Castle.
What means this ſilent, ſolitary gloom?
All nature in her diſhabille appears;
Contracted flow’rets yield no ſweet perfume,
And ev’ry grove a diſmal aſpect wears.
Nor do the joys of Autumn glad our plains;
Our landſcapes are in ſable weeds array’d;
No jocund ſound is heard among the ſwains,
And nought but ſighs from each dejected maid.
Rude Eurus echoing through the diſtant woods,
With harſh, diſcordant note, augments our wo;
While rains, impetuous, from the burſting clouds,
Our verdant walks and pleaſure-grounds o’erflow.
Incumber’d by their foliage now, the trees,
With leaves, untimely dropp’d, beſtrew the ground:
Becauſe Matilda’s preſence does not pleaſe,
All bleak and diſmal ſeem the fields around.
Her placid looks beſpoke a mind ſerene,
Each feature wore an unaffected ſmile;
Her’s was the pow’r to beautify the ſcene,
And ſweetly gay the languid hours beguile.
Her count’nance milder than an April morn,
When Phœbus firſt emits his infant rays;
More radiant beauties do her mind adorn,
Than ere were brighten’d by his noon-tide blaze.
Fair Virtue, cloth’d in all it’s native ſweets,
Celeſtial precepts in her breaſt inlaid;
And oft, as friendly intercourſe invites,
In ſofteſt accents from her lips convey’d.
But now ſhe’s gone, a ſullen ſadneſs reigns!
Abſorb’d in grief we ſtill her abſence mourn,
Or beg that heaven would ſmile upon our plains,
And grant a bleſſing in her ſwift return.
The Fickle Pair.
Damon and Phillis, ’tother day,
To Hymen’s altar haſten’d;
They talk’d of love along the way,
And wiſh’d the knot well faſten’d.
A church the willing pair perceiv’d,
With portals wide expanded;
The prieſt a ſpeedy audience crav’d,
And in the bride was handed.
When lo! a tremor ſeiz’d the fair,
In marriage robes adorned;
She left the youth perplex’d with care,
The rites yet unperformed.
With eager ſteps he ſwift purſu’d
The object of his wiſhes,
And with redoubl’d ardour woo’d
Her to complete his bliſſes.
The maid, reluctant, turn’d again,
Some glances kind beſtowing;
And well reſolv’d appear’d the ſwain,
Though with reſentment glowing.
Kind Hymen heav’d his torch, while they
Re-enter’d both together;
But Cupid ſlily took hiw way,
And went—they knew not whither.
The bridegroom next—but what of that,
No bride his abſence mourned;
He play’d his charmer tit for tat;
He went but ne’er returned.
Philander kindly fill’d his place;
To Damon Chloe conſented.
That night they wed, O woful caſe!
And ere next morn repented.
To A Lady, A Patroness of the Muses, on Her Recovery from Sickness.
While ſickneſs, madam, on your vitals prey’d,
The ſympathetic ſiſters ſhar’d your pain:
I mark’d them then in ſable weeds array’d,
In concert ſad aſſume the plaintive ſtrain.
From Elly’s The Reſidence of the celebrated Poet, Robert Burns. Land was heard the harp of wo;
A ſhepherd, once the blitheſt of the throng,
Did mirth inſpiring, ſportive notes forego,
And ſteep’d in tears the melancholy ſong.
From Irvine’s verdant banks, a doleful lay
Re-echo’d through the groves and diſtant dale;
Each vocal throat was fill’d with dire diſmay,
And heart-felt ſighs proclaim’d th’ unwelcome tale.
Quick and unſtable are the turns of Fate;
’Twixt well and wo are thin partitions rear’d:
I mark’d the drooping choir with hearts elate,
Exulting o’er the ills ſo lately fear’d.
When brooding on the verge of deep deſpair,
A gladd’ning voice did through the groves reſound;
Loud acclamations fill’d the ambient air,
And joy and pleaſure triumph’d all around.
Health, blooming goddeſs, re-aſſum’d her ſway,
And did the tender, captive frame releaſe;
All ſeem’d intent the tidings to convey,
In notes more grateful than the whiſp’ring breeze.
Some greet a patroneſs, all hail a friend,
Whoſe boſom feels ſeraphic virtues glow;
Nor further, madam, do your ſmiles extend;
Vice dreads your frown, and ſhuns you as a foe.
The Lottery Ticket.
Celia, fair, beyond deſcription,
Soon became the fav’rite toaſt;
Charms unrival’d ev’n by fiction,
Did the lovely maiden boaſt.
Beaux and ſages, panting, dying,
Did of love and her complain,
While the nymph, his darts defying,
Triumph’d o’er her thouſands ſlain.
With their woes too raſhly ſporting,
Still more fatal darts were ſought;
Anxious to augment her fortune,
She a lott’ry-ticket bought.
But old Plutus, ſullen power,
Can the fair and brave withſtand;
Shov’d a blank to Celia’s hand:
While Brunetta, ſhort of ſtature,
Limbs diſtorted, ſhoulders round,
Gain’d new charms, in ſpite of Nature,
By good thirty thouſand pound.
Celia now, with looks dejected,
Seem’d the erring wheel to blame,
When the god, with brows erected,
Did a moment’s audience claim.
Go bright Celia, fair and cruel,
Still of countleſs charms ſecure,
Would you heedleſs add more fuel
To the flames you will not cure?
View the maid to grief inclined,
Though ſhe graſps the golden prize,
O how gladly ſhe’d reſign it,
For the conqueſts of your eyes!
The Month’s Love
Ye maidens attend to my tale,
Of love that ſly archer take care;
His darts o’er all ranks do prevail,
The wealthy, the wiſe, and the fair.
When once his fierce arrow he throws,
Contentment will bid you adieu;
No potion the doctor beſtows,
Can then be of ſervice to you.
Experience prompts me to tell,
I felt his tyrannical ſway;
The time I remember too well;
It was a long month and a day.
The youth, I’ll not mention his name,
Who was the ſole cauſe of my ſmart,
His deeds were unnotic’d by fame,
His manners unpoliſh’d by art.
His perſon could boaſt of no charm,
His words of no conquering power;
Yet his footſteps did give the alarm,
Which made my heart beat for an hour.
When abſent from him I ador’d,
One minute as ages did prove;
Though plenty repleniſh’d my board,
I faſted and feaſted on love.
My couch but augmented my pain;
No ſleep ever cloſed my eyes;
One glance of my ruſtic young ſwain
Was what I more highly did prize.
None ever bemoan’d my ſad caſe;
They laugh’d at the ills I endur’d;
But time did my ſorrows efface,
And ſpite of the imp I was cur’d.
I saw my lov’d youth in the ſhade,
Soft whiſp’ring to Suſan apart;
Reſentment came quick to my aid,
And I baniſh’d him quite from my heart.
But be not too forward, ye fair,
Nor take too much courage from me,
How many have fall’n in the ſnare
That got not ſo eaſily free?
Damon and Philander.
The ſun with keenneſs darts his ſultry ray;
To ſome cool ſhade Philander haſte away,
Nigh yon ſmooth riv’let, where the ſouthern breeze
So ſoftly plays among the bord’ring trees.
Beneath yon ſpreading elm let’s reſt a while,
And with our ſongs the tedious hours beguile:
There will I tune my pipe to Delia’s praiſe,
While ev’ry ſwain’s attentive to my lays.
O Damon! how inſipid is thy theme?
Philander’s ſick of thy lov’d Delia’s name:
Nor can the faireſt nymph enſlave my heart;
Man’s ſoul was form’d to act a nobler part.055 D6r 51
This gewgaw train can ne’er my thoughts employ;
Such would diſpel but can’t augment my joy.
I’ll ſing the beauties of the breathing ſpring,
The treaſures Autumn to my barns will bring.
To notes of tranſport ever tune my reed,
While on the plains my num’rous flocks I feed.
Let Damon’s breaſt trivial joys diſdain;
What though my flocks o’erſpread the wide domain?
What though my barns were with abundance ſtor’d,
And gen’rous nectar ever grac’d my board?
Nor honour, riches, though their force unite,
In Delia’s abſence ever can delight.
O Delia! ſweeter than the op’ning dawn,
More bright than rays that cheer the dewy lawn.
Her ſparkling eye the orient gem outſhines,056 D6v 52
Her cheeks of roſeate hue, her flaxen hair,
In eaſy curls, waves gently in the air.
Her coral lips ambroſial ſweets retain;
She rivals Juno in her air and mien;
She far exceeds what ancient painters drew,
When fancy’s flights the Cyprian queen purſue.
Such excellence might grace a prince’s arms;
Yet this muſt yield to her interior charms.
In her fair boſom virtue bears the ſway;
There wiſdom ſheds a pure unmingl’d ray.
Truth, innocence, and modeſty combine
T’ adorn her mind, where all perfections ſhine:
Apollo’s wit does to the maid belong;
Her voice more charming than the Syren’s ſong.
Hold, hold, dear Damon, ſure too much is ſaid;
Your Delia’s then a moſt bewitching maid:
As blind men judge of colours, ſo you trace
The matchleſs beauties of her charming face,057 D7r 53
Recount her virtues, and, with partial eyes,
Admire in her what others would deſpiſe.
A ſad delirium ſure has ſeiz’d thy brain,
Which makes thee fancy what the poets feign,
Of love, and ſuch like vain fantaſtic whims,
’Tis wild chimera all, and idle dreams.
And doſt thou doubt of ſuch a thing as love?
If once thy breaſt, like mine, the ſmart ſhould prove,
More than is painted by the poet’s art,
In genuine colours will affect thy heart.
But wherefore now contemn my rural lays?
Thy notes were ſwell’d once with Lucretia’s praiſe!
Does ſhe thy favours treat with diſreſpect,
Which makes thee now all other maids neglect!
Lucretia ſtill appears in all her charms,
A match moſt fitting for Philander’s arms.058 D7v 54
What ſhe poſſeſſes yields moſt ſolid joy,
Theſe beauties catch; they ſet my heart on fire;
Her farm, her flocks, are all I do admire:
Her darts are powerful, of a yellowiſh hue;
More fierce than thoſe the fam’d Alcides threw.
Her ſtriking beauty in full bloom appears,
At the dull period of full fifty years:
Then Delia will no admiration claim,
But dear Lucretia ever is the ſame.
For this you love her; now I truly find,
That none but gilded cords your heart can bind;
Nor wit nor beauty can obtain your vow;
At Mammon’s ſhrine you ſtill devoutly bow.
Vain would th’ attempts of either be to hold
My am’rous heart, without the force of gold:059 D8r 55
Beauty an empty trifle ſtill I deem,
A childiſh toy, unworthy of eſteem.
Its gaudy foliage may attract the eye;
But as the tulip it will fade and die:
The glowing cheek enamour’d fops may prize,
But men of ſenſe can ruby lips deſpiſe.
And what is wit? a giddy flutt’ring thing,
Which can no real ſatisfaction bring.
A thouſand ills attend his wretched life,
Whoſe dear companion is a witty wife:
Still ſhe is right, and ever in the wrong,
Such elocution dwells upon her tongue.
But if afflicted by the Muſe’s ſkill,
He ſure may dread the poiſon of her quill;
She with keen ſatire laſhes all around,
And with the reſt her huſband feels the wound.
Should poverty, by ſudden threats alarm,
Can wit with all its power now prove a charm?
The faireſt flowers Parnaſſus ere could boaſt,
Yield to the treaſures of the golden coaſt.
The maid who comes fraught with that precious ore,
Brings virtue, wit, and beauty all in ſtore;060 D8v 56
This gives the palid cheek a crimſon glow,
The tawny ſkin the tincture of the ſnow.
This makes the dwarf complete in ev’ry part:
She wounds moſt ſure who throws the golden dart.
Short of one foot, diſtorted of one eye,
Struck by its luſtre, no defects I ſpy.
Thus does Philander waſte his wits to prove
A happy marriage deſtitute of love.
Gold, curſed gold, the bane of ev’ry bliſs,
Thy ſummum bonum, all thy happineſs.
Say, to what purpoſe do thy words avail?
Beauty and wit to give us joy may fail.
Wit ceaſe to pleaſe, and beauty may decay,
Riches make wings and ſwiftly fly away;
Depriv’d of all, what will Philander ſay?
But to ſecure thee of thy darling’s charms,
Go to the mines, and lodge within her arms;
Enfold thy miſtreſs in a fond embrace,
For ever baniſh’d from the ſhepherd race.061 E1r 57
Nor quit thy manſion till thou breathe thy laſt:
Such ſordid ſouls no ſocial joys ſhould taſte.
Bleſt with my Delia on this happy plain,
Where peace and pleaſure in perfection reign,
I’ll more ſerenely paſs life’s hours away,
Than without her, though crown’d with princely ſway.
To pleaſe my charmer all my care ſhall be;
Can I be wretched when ſhe ſmiles on me?
But we muſt go, our fleecy charge attend.
Farewell, Philander, I am ſtill thy friend.
The maid whoſe real charms the heart can hold,
Muſt not be deem’d one whit the worſe for gold.
Colin and Alexis.
Now from before Aurora’s rays,
Stern darkneſs with its horror flies;
The mountain tops begin to blaze,
And Phœbus gilds the eaſtern ſkies.
See gliſt’ning dew drops on the buſh,
Reviving odours cheer the morn;
The warbling blackbird and the thruſh,
Make vocal ev’ry blooming thorn.
Alexis join the rural lay,
Give welcome to the op’ning ſpring.
Why ſigh’ſt thou thus thy hours away?
Come take thy pipe, and ſoftly ſing.
Beneath theſe ivy mantled trees,
Allow me, Colin, to complain.
No murm’ring brook, nor whiſp’ring breeze
Can in the leaſt divert my pain.
The maid, whoſe charms I oft have ſung,
Has left the plain, ’twas what I fear’d,
And o’er her ſhoulders, careleſs hung,
A Caledonian plaid appear’d.
Of ancient note on Scotia’s plain,
And by her grandam often wore,
Its crimſon hue was free from ſtain,
Which made Caliſta ſhine the more.
Yea ſtill ſhe ſhines; her radient eyes
And luſtre to the brighteſt day;
Each feature ſtrikes with new ſurpriſe,
And various beauties ſtill diſplay.
But why ſhould I recount them ſtill?
’Tis only to increaſe my pain.
She bids theſe verdant fields farewell,
And goes to ſeek a richer ſwain.
Caliſta, with thy rapid flight,
Is vaniſh’d each delightful gleam.
Can Drife’s fair banks give more delight,
Than Eckles’ gently winding ſtream?
Do ſweeter ſcents perfume the grove,
Or fairer flow’rs adorn the vale?
Do comelier ſwains now talk of love,
And cheer thee with their am’rous tale?
More ſprightly youths may feel the ſmart,
And court thee with aſſiduous care;
But none of all who ſeek thy heart
Avows a paſſion more ſincere.
Then haſte Caliſta, ſave the ſwain,
Who in thy abſence ever ſighs;
Add freſher beauties to the plain,
And bid more pleaſing proſpects riſe.
Give to the flowers a livelier hue;
Thy preſence makes all nature gay.
O lovely maid! when bleſt with you,
Each ſeaſon ſeems the month of May.
The warblers now, with plaintive note,
Seem to accord with ev’ry ſigh;
The ſhepherds have their ſongs forgot,
And laid their pipes in ſilence by.
Since thy retreat, O charming fair!
Day after day my hopes deſtroy.
O ſave Alexis from deſpair,
And crown ſucceeding ſcenes with joy.
Almeda and Flavia.
While duſky ſhades eclipſe the ſolar ray,
And fanning zephyrs ’mong the branches play,
Where varied beauties deck the verdant groves,
Let us recount the ſtory of our loves.
Say, dear Almeda, why this penſive mood,
Which does thy wonted cheerfulneſs exclude?
The cauſe of this to Flavia I’ll reveal:
It is a youth whoſe power I can’t conceal.
’Tis Strephon, who long ſince obtain’d my heart,
When artful Cupid gave the killing dart.067 E4r 63
When Strephon’s near, no anxious cares moleſt,
Nor acceſs find to my enraptur’d breaſt;
But when he’s gone, his abſence ſtill I mourn,
And ſpend my hours in ſighs till he return.
You kindle into rapture at his name;
Be wiſe in time, and guard againſt a flame,
Which cheriſh’d, hopeleſs, will your charms efface,
And rob your features of each blooming grace.
The dear Caſtalia taught my heart to prove
The ſoft’ning charms and pleaſing art of love.
Witneſs ye rural walks and verdant vales,
How charm’d I’ve liſten’d to his melting tales;
While he, unſkill’d in flatt’ry, did impart,
In flowing ſtrains, the dictates of his heart.
Blind was my paſſion, long it bore the ſway,
Suppreſs’d at laſt by the enliv’ning rayE4 068 E4v 64
Of Reaſon wak’d, by ſome celeſtial pow’r,
To my relief, in an auſpicious hour,
With open’d eyes I did the charmer view;
Deaf to his accents, from his preſence flew.
Obſerve, my precepts are with prudence fraught,
What heart ſo ſtubborn would remain untaught?
Command the briny waves no more to flow,
Bid ſouthern breezes ever ceaſe to blow;
Say to the flowers, no more your fragrance yield,
Nor Ceres crown with joy the fertile field;
Bid Phœebus ceaſe to gild the op’ning morn,
And Cynthia be of all her beauty ſhorn:
Would theſe obedient as thy vaſſals prove?
No more can I, dear Flavia, ceaſe to love.
A youth poſſeſſ’d of ev’ry moving art,
Quick acceſs gains to the ſecureſt heart.
When he appears, to cheer the drooping plain,
Each nymph enamour’d ſpends her ſighs in vain:069 E5r 65
And when in ſofteſt ſtrains he tunes his lay,
Each ſhepherd, envious, throws his lute away.
In him all radiant virtues are combin’d,
True greatneſs centers in a humble mind;
Truth, candour, juſtice, in his gen’rous breaſt,
Firm fortitude and ſoft compaſſion reſt.
Nor can the gods on mortals more beſtow,
A bright example of their works below.
Young Strephon’s charms, no tongue could e’er expreſs;
I may be ſilent, but can’t love him leſs.
Enough is ſaid, Almeda dear, to prove
No fault is ſeen in thoſe we truly love.
The ſon of Venus, by a magic art,
Deceives the ſight, ſoon as he wounds the heart.
Blind as himſelf does all his vot’ries make,
Extremely happy in their own miſtake.
In all his charms I have young Strephon ſeen,
Yet never by the youth have wounded been.070 E5v 66
Yet were he, as you paint him, thus complete,
And fond to lay his garlands at your feet,
Sure young men’s minds ſtill ſubject are to change,
Though from our plains he were not doom’d to range.
A change of ſcenes may, with diſtorted brows,
Pour ſwift contempt on all your former vows.
But let indiff’rence lodge within your breaſt,
Nor Strephon’s abſence e’er your mind moleſt;
The more his charms, the ſurer he’ll ſucceed
’Mong pow’rful rivals, whom you now may dread.
I know his charms the gentleſt dame might move,
But he’ll admit no rival in his love:
My image ſtill remains within his breaſt,
True to that hour I firſt my love confeſt.
This pleaſing hope will ſoothe my anxious ſoul,
Nor let ſtern care its peaceful ſway controul,071 E6r 67
Diffuſe into my heart its ſoft relief,
Diſpel my fears and diſſipate my grief.
I’ll ſay the youth, for me by heaven deſign’d,
Is good, as lovely, conſtant, as he’s kind;
So ſmoothly ſhall the ſeaſons glide along,
Till Strephon’s preſence animate my ſong,
Then ſhall my pleaſure as my love abound,
’Till Hymen’s rites with purest joys be crown’d.
So may you ſing, and ſigh your years away,
With flatt’ring hope, perch’d on the feeble ſpray
Of Strephon’s faith, the efforts rend’ring vain
Of ſuch as would eſſay your love to gain,
Till his own choice, or ſome diſaſter ſhow,
Your promis’d pleaſures vaniſh’d like the ſnow.
Your charms are fled, no lover then in view,
The paths of diſcontent you will purſue.
That you deſpis’d Philander then you’ll mourn,
Nor gave Lothario’s ſuit a just return;072 E6v 68
Or for Alonzo ſigh when ’tis too late,
And with reluctance meet your deſtin’d fate.
This will your ſlighted lovers laugh to ſee
Almeda then a maiden old will be.
The paths you paint I will not tread alone,
While Flavia lives I ſhall be ſure of one.
Then hand in hand we’ll ſmooth the rugged way,
And ſigh for ſigh ſhall bear our griefs away.
Why ſhould we ſigh? In ſmiles we will contend,
And laugh at what we have no power to mend.
Should fate deprive me of my darling ſwain,
Some braver youth perhaps may grace the plain,
And make me happy by the nuptial band,
When cheerfully he gives his heart and hand.
Or if deſpis’d and unadmir’d I reſt,
I’ll call my own ſad deſtiny the beſt.073 E7r 69
I’ll bliſs the fate I oft have ſought to ſhun,
And ſcorn the fool who would to wedlock run.
See Nature now in contraſt with thy grief;
The warbling ſongſters ſeem to chant relief;
Their notes are cheerful, nor with ſighs depreſs’d;
In concert join and ſoothe your cares to reſt.
How mournful and penſive their ſtrain;
Nought ſweet can appear to my ſight,
Since Strephon’s forſaken the plain.
With joy I theſe banks did ſurvey,
With pleaſure I’ve por’d on the ſtream:
Young Strephon then with me did ſtray,
And of nought but delight I could dream.
While he by my ſide did recline,
The flowers ſeem’d to brighten their bloom;
The ſun with more luſtre did ſhine,
And fragrance the fields did perfume.
Still pleaſ’d with his whiſpers of love,
Still charm’d with his amorous tale;
Now beauty’s forſaken the grove,
And his abſence I’ll ever bewail.
How gloomy and diſmal the ſhade,
Where Strephon was wont to appear,
Where oft his addreſſes he made,
And his accents delighted my ear.
Thoſe paths I reviſit in pain;
Yet love them without knowing why.
When fortune no favour will deign,
I deem it a pleaſure to ſigh.
In vain have my viſitants ſtrove
My woes to divert by a ſmile;
Though I ſeem’d of their jeſt to approve,
My heart was with Strephon the while.
Society, ſpoil’d of each charm,
Without him no pleaſure can give;
In ſolitude cares will alarm,
In his abſence ’tis painful to live.
When Sol, from the watery main,
Aſcends to illumine the ſky,
My thoughts to the lovelieſt ſwain,
More ſwift than the lightning can fly.
I muſe on his charms all day;
The theme ſeems enchantingly ſweet,
Nor ends with bright Phœbus’s ray
In dreams I my wiſhes repeat.
Ye angels that ſuccour the brave,
Prove guardians to the ſweet youth;
Still may he with honour behave,
Integrity, wiſdom and truth.
While through diſtant climes he may rove,
His image is fix’d in my view;
Let Strephon be conſtant in love,
And Almeda will ever be true.
On the Spring.
Now winter, reluctant, the ſway
Reſigns to the genial ſpring;
Sol ſheds an enlivening ray,
And warblers delightfully ſing.
Freſh verdure adorns the gay plains,
So lately o’er-mantled with ſnow;
The rivers, releas’d from their chains,
Do now with ſoft murmuring flow.
The lark and the linnet unite,
The Cuckow too joins in the lay;
All nature’s profuſe of delight,
And ſoft fanning zephyrs now play.
How charming the garden appears?
Sweet primroſes paint the gay vale:
Its head now the daffodil rears,
The ſweeteſt of ſeaſons to hail,
His team now the hind drives along;
Quite cheerful he ploughs the rude plain.
He hums his love’s praiſe in a ſong,
Or whiſtling forgets her diſdain.
The ſeed in the furrow he throws,
Indulg’d by bright Phœbus’s rays;
Rich Ceres vaſt increaſe beſtows,
When Autumn her bounty diſplays.
The lambkins now ſport on the mead;
They ſkip round the heath-cover’d hill;
Their dams how ſecurely they feed
By the ſide of yon murm’ring rill?
Near Damon appears with his lute,
And wakes the melodious lay;
The ſongſters, attentive and mute,
Are perch’d on the wav’ring ſpray.
As Phillis traverſes the grove,
All nature more charming appears:
Leander’s ſoft ſtories of love,
Still touchingly ſound in her ears.
They hand in hand trip o’er the plain;
No couple more cheerful and gay:
She counts him the lovelieſt ſwain;
He calls her the Queen of the May.
Of each others hearts they are ſure;
The arts of no rival they dread.
From minds ſo unſulli’d and pure,
No treachery e’er can proceed.
Few princes partake of ſuch joys,
Remov’d from all faction and ſtrife:
Sure riches and honours are toys,
But their’s the endearments of life.
William and Mary.
Young William once the blitheſt of the ſwains,
That grac’d the flow’ry bank, or trode the plains;
Not ruſtic, but from affectation free,
Still courteous, kind, and affable was he.
Of gentleſt manners, ever form’d to pleaſe;
His mind unruffl’d, ever bleſt with eaſe;
His mien engaging, ſweet beyond compare;
His breath delicious as the fragrant air;
His nature prone, attractive ſweets t’ impart,
Good without ſhew, and lovely without art.
Each nymph him priz’d, and oft they ſought, in vain,
The noble conqueſt of his heart to gain.F2080 F2v 76
Their gentleſt arts unable were to move,
His ſoul ſerene, yet undiſturb’d by love.
Ah! tranſient happineſs! how ſhort thy ſway!
How ſwift thy flight! how ſudden thy decay!
Thy abſence now the youth, dejected, mourns,
While in his heart love’s kindling paſſion burns.
A lovely nymph, adorn’d with ev’ry grace,
Fairer than fam’d, of old, Arcadia’s race:
An eaſy ſhape, and graceful in her air,
The virgins’ envy, and the ſwains’ deſpair.
Her name was Mary, from the banks of Clyde,
She came to taſte the ſummer in its pride.
One fatal eve, this charming youth paſs’d by,
And on this blooming damſel caſt his eye:
Her charms, reſiſtleſs, ſmote his gen’rous heart,
Surpris’d, confounded, then he felt the ſmart.
Sometime with wonder on the maid he gaz’d,
Then ſilence broke, and thus, like one amaz’d:
What do I feel! from whence this magic ſpell!
Is this that love of which the poets tell?081 F3r 77
It muſt be ſo; elſe why this pleaſing pain,
Theſe ſweet enchanting hopes the nymph to gain?
This fear, this dread, which does my ſoul moleſt?
Such things till now were ſtrangers to my breaſt.
He own’d ’twas love, and wiſh’d to find relief;
But warbling ſongſters can’t aſſuage his grief.
The ſweets of Spring no pleaſre now can yield,
Nor all the verdure which adorns the field.
To this ſoft paſſion all his powers gave way,
And in his heart young Mary bore the ſway.
Go then, fond youth, and tell the maid thy care,
Who knows, perhaps ſhe may be kind as fair.
Yes, Mary ſure will hear thy plaintive ſtrain;
’Twas her who caus’d, ſhe too muſt cure thy pain.
Thy paſſion urg’d, her tender love confeſt,
What maid ſo happy, or what ſwain ſo bleſt?
Join now Apollo the harmonious ſtrain,
O Muſes, Graces, all ye gentle train;
Once more conſpire to aid my humble lays,
And wake my harp to fam’d Lothario’s praiſe.
A comely youth, young Cupid’s favourite care,
Handſome in ſhape, and graceful in his air:
In all reſpects he’s form’d the fair to pleaſe,
Can ſigh, and talk, and laugh, and love with eaſe.
But O what words, what numbers can expreſs,
What muſe can paint Lothario’s late diſtreſs?
This I’ll eſſay, although the taſk’s ſevere,
While Delia drops a ſympathetic tear.
And thus it happen’d, on a fatal morn,
Rous’d with the ſound of hound and echoing horn,
This charming youth, on rural ſports intent,
With ſome companions to the field he went:
Each hound he ſummons, they attend him there,
With eager ſteps purſue the timid hare.
Pleas’d with their toil, o’er various heights they went,
Nor did the craggy cliffs their ſpeed prevent.
Too ſoon Lothario gain’d the wiſh’d for prize,
While horns and hounds re-echo to the ſkies.
The chaſe now paſt, their late inſpiring toil,
Our jovial ſportſman led to reſt a while.
To the next inn with haſty ſteps they paſs,
And quaff with ſocial hearts the cheerful glaſs.
In foaming goblets pleaſing draughts went round;
In ſparkling liquors ev’ry care was drown’d.
But ah! the fumes affect Lothario’s brain;
Once more he tries for pleaſure on the plain.F4084 F4v 80
The ſcene is chang’d, his pleaſure now is gone,
Loſt and forlorn he wanders all alone.
With weari’d ſteps, o’er barren heaths he paſt,
And in Bane’s moſs, alas! he lands at laſt.
His trembling hand, which held the lifeleſs hare,
Now caſts it from him as not worth his care.
Three times he drops, three times he lifts his plaid,
Hope and deſpair by turns his breaſt invade:
He look’d for help, alas! no help was nigh,
And in the dreary moſs he’s forc’d to lie.
Am I to Death become an eaſy prey,
With quiv’ring lips methought he thus did ſay,
Now farewell hope, my much lov’d friends, adieu;
My dear companions, charming Delia too.
O wert thou near to heave a tender ſigh,
Upon thy breaſt I would contented die:
With raviſh’d eyes I’ll view thy charms no more;
My race is run, life’s fleeting viſion o’er.
Thus did the ſad Lothario vent his grief,
Till balmy ſleep beſtow’d a ſhort relief.
On moſſy pillows reſts his drooping head,
While azure curtains hang around his bed.
Nor op’d his eyes till dawning of the day:
The chilling froſt his tender form had ſeiz’d,
But Phœbus’ beams the captive ſwain releas’d,
Abaſh’d, confounded, being thus confin’d,
To free himſelf part of his coat reſign’d;
With tardy pace the plains he wander’d o’er,
Some cot or village wiſh’d to ſee once more.
Kind fortune now did her aſſiſtance lend,
And led him ſafely to a gen’rous friend.
Lothario view’d the manſion with delight,
And at the door he knock’d with all his might.
Impatience, by repeated ſtrokes, confeſt,
Till they with joy receiv’d the welcome gueſt,
Who ſeem’d as one from mortals long eſtrang’d,
His ſoft addreſs and comely viſage chang’d:
His clothes by nauſeous mud beſpatter’d o’er;
His hair diſhevell’d, and his ruffles tore.086 F5v 82
Struck with amaze, they view’d his diſmal caſe,
Nor were they ſlow in rend’ring him ſolace.
Unto the parlour fire he firſt is led,
From thence into Matilda’s downy bed;
Then with aſſiduous care they kindly ſoothe
And cheer the lonely, wand’ring, helpleſs youth.
Each friendly aid conſpir’d to eaſe his pain,
And bring Lothario to himſelf again.
Ye lovely nymphs, now ſing in ſofteſt ſtrains
Lothario’s praiſe, the pride of Scotia’s plains;
Ye charming youths, bleſt with his company,
Pray that Bane Moſs he never more may ſee.
An Elegy on the Death of Mrs. ――, Personating Her Husband.
Where can the wretched find relief from wo,
Or ſue for comfort in life’s dreary vale?
Here can philoſophy no aid beſtow,
And reaſon muſt in all her efforts fail.
What boſom feels not, while with deepeſt ſighs,
In fault’ring accents, I of Fate complain?
A pale and mangl’d corps Amanda lies;
O that by ſavage hand ſhe had been ſlain!
It was her own, on fatal purpoſe bent,
To dark oblivion be the deed conſign’d;
Nor let officious mem’ry thus torment,
With wild reflection my diſorder’d mind.
Ah! what is happineſs? an airy dream:
While ſtupid mortals fondly hope its ſtay,
Supinely baſking in the tranſient gleam,
A ſudden blaſt diſpels the glimm’ring ray.
Amanda, late the faireſt of the throng,
Of all our rural nymphs ſhe was the pride;
I ſaw, I lov’d, nor did I languiſh long,
With modeſt bluſhes ſhe became my bride.
We then the ſweets of ſocial life did prove,
Bleſt in our lot, nor did we ſigh for fame.
A comely boy, the pledge of mutual love,
Enhanc’d our pleaſure, and our care did claim.
What words can paint the horrors of my breaſt,
While briefly I the tragic ſcene diſcloſe?
Pale death our darling infant did arreſt,
One direful night when ſunk in ſoft repoſe.
No tender guardian mark’d his lateſt ſigh;
No cordial did his quiv’ring lips receive;
So have I ſeen a flow’r of faireſt die,
Bud in the morn, and fade before ’twas eve.
Amanda view’d the change with wild ſurpriſe;
Tumult’ous paſſions did her boſom ſwell;
Nor could ſhe long the fervid flame diſguiſe;
An awful victim to deſpair ſhe fell!
She’s gone, and Nature ſeems a blank to me;
No charm appears in all its large domain.
The ſongſters ſilent ſit upon the tree,
Or pour their notes in melancholy ſtrain.
The banks of Irvine yield me no delight,
Nor can bright Phœbus cheer me by his ray:
In reſtleſs toſſing ſtill I ſpend the night,
Nor comfort find at the return of day.
The briny tears in copious torrents flow,
Nor can my trembling hand the theme purſue:
The pangs I feel may Damon never know;
Amanda’s gone, my deareſt friend adieu.
Celia and Her Looking Glass.
As Celia, who a coquette was,
O’er fading charms lamented,
She frown’d upon her looking-glaſs,
And thus her ſpleen ſhe vented.
Thou ſilly, ſtupid, worthleſs thing,
Of all diſcretion empty,
I o’er the window will thee fling,
If any more you tempt me.
Thou’rt incorrigible and bold,
Unworthy my attention:
What! muſt I ever more be told,
The thing I dread to mention?
A maiden old, kind heaven avert;
I hate the appellation.
The blood runs chill about my heart,
I’m choak’d with ſore vexation.
Laſt night when at the ball I danc’d,
My air was counted charming;
My eyes gave pain where’er they glanc’d,
Each geſture prov’d alarming.
Philander ſaw, their pow’r confeſt,
And with love tales did teaſe me!
I ſigh’d, I frown’d, he was diſtreſs’d,
But with my ſmiles ſeem’d eaſy.
But Chloe mark’d, that new made toaſt,
By other flirts ſurrounded,
Poor Celia now her charms had loſt,
Which in laſt cent’ry wounded.
A whiſper then and laugh went round,
Such ſcoffing I endured,
Nor did Philander heed my frown,
But by the jeſt was cured.
An eaſy paſſage through the crowd
I found, none did eſcort me;
No gallant youth my preſence ſu’d,
Nor flatter’d to ſupport me.
Now Morpheus next I did addreſs,
For ſlumbers more delightful;
But in my dreams I found diſtreſs,
With apes and ſpectres frightful.
Then unto thee, thou baſe ingrate,
I ſu’d for conſolation,
Who rudely now foretels my fate
Though I’m abandon’d on that ſcore,
Though fools and fops are changed,
Of thy impertinence no more,
Elſe ſure I’ll be revenged.
Its head the looking-glaſs did bow,
With reverent low ſubmiſſion,
And to its angry miſtreſs now,
Did utter this petition.
O madam, deign to hear my tale,
And let my ſorrows move ye;
My plain ſincerity can’t fail
To ſhew how much I love you.
Nor lap-dog, bird, or powder’d beau
Was more by you regarded,
Than I full fifteen years ago,
Though baſely now discarded.
Each hour you paid me viſits ten,
My counſel well you truſted;
Without my approbation then
No curls you e’er adjuſted.
An artleſs ſmile adorn’d your cheek,
And grac’d each lovely feature,
Which I obſerve now, once a-week,
Diſtorted by ill nature.
The pallid cheek and wrinkl’d brow
Announce your charms declining;
And wont you take the veſtal vow
Without ſo much repining?
The truth, though in unwelcome ſtrain,
To you I muſt diſcover;
While youth or beauty ſways the ſwain,
You’ll never find a lover.
Poor Celia now could bear no more,
Her ſtars malignant curſed;
Her looking-glaſs caſt on the floor,
And into tears ſhe burſted.
The Unfortunate Rambler.
Late on an evening I chanced to roam,
The night it was dark, and the ſtreets they were dirty;
It was to attend the lov’d Celia home,
Engag’d in a company jovial and hearty.
I inſtantly haſten’d to put on my ſhield,
The ſhield of indiff’rence, perhaps you may know it;
Appriz’d of the danger attending the field,
I judg’d it a piece of high prudence to ſhew it.
I went to the door of an elegant inn;
I heard who was there, and was fearful to venture:
Hope to embolden me then did begin,
And courage undaunted advis’d me to enter.
I quickly ſtepp’d forward, but ſtruck with amaze,
By imminent danger I then was ſurrounded:
Three handſome young damſels upon me did gaze,
And all of a ſudden, alas! I was wounded.
Their ſhafts were ſet right, and their arrows did fly;
I ſcarce could diſtinguiſh from whom they came thickeſt.
By Cupid’s aſſiſtance at laſt I did ſpy
The perſon beſt tim’d in her motions, and quickeſt.
Each geſture was killing, and gave me ſurpriſe;
I grop’d for my breaſt-plate, it from me was taken:
My ſhield of indiff’rence had left me likewiſe;
My courage did fail, and my heart it was ſhaken.
Thus finding myſelf in a pitiful plight;
A young maid ſo handſome I needs muſt admire:
I gave a deep ſigh, and I bid them goodnight;
My only expedient was—to retire.
A little of abſence effected the cure,
So happily I of my wounds did recover;
But now at a diſtance to keep I’ll be ſure,
And laugh at the fate of a vanquished lover.
Direful indeed are thy effects, O love!
When Reaſon’s voice deſerts thy frantic ſhrine;
Platonic leſſons no aſylum prove;
His dictates muſt obſequious yield to thine.
Religion, in majeſtic form array’d,
Attempts to ſoothe the wild, diſorder’d breaſt.
Alas! too often fails the promis’d aid,
Nor can procure one tranquil moment’s reſt.
The wiſe, ſubdu’d by thy tyrannic ſway,
Thy cruel and malignant influence feel;
Compell’d to act by thy deluſive ray,
As humble vot’ries at thine altars kneel.
The Prince, the Peaſant, drag an equal chain,
Nor high, nor low, thy ſubtle darts can brave.
Lucina felt the agonizing pain,
Then hopeleſs ſunk amid the rapid wave.
She was of Annon’s lovely nymphs the grace,
Of charms ſuperior to the crowd poſſeſs’d:
Her ſhape was faultleſs, matchleſs fair her face,
Her virtues bright, by Envy’s ſelf confeſt.
Of all the ſprightly youths that ſought to gain
The envi’d conqueſt of her virgin heart,
Philander prov’d the dear diſtinguiſh’d ſwain,
Arm’d with the cruel, unrelenting dart.
He in ſoft accents urg’d his ardent flame,
And when Lucina would his ſuit deny,
Her beating boſom would aſſert his claim—
Her modeſt bluſh, and more expreſſive eye.
At laſt her tongue, the purpoſe of her heart
Unto the youth convey’d, in tender ſtrain:
Then mutual joy each whiſper did impart,
So great the tranſport, neither dream’d of pain.
But Ah! their joys were ſoon for ever loſt,
Her fire, enrag’d, forbid the nuptial tie,
Becauſe Philander no rich ſtores could boaſt:
Charms moſt attractive to a parent’s eye.
The injur’d youth was by reſentment ſway’d;
To this his ſofter paſſion ſoon gave way:
Too raſh, alas! he ſought another maid,
And left Lucina to deſpair a prey.
From ev’ry hope, from all her wiſhes torn,
Depriv’d of what alone could give relief,
The lovely fair, dejected and forlorn,
Some time in heavy ſighs did vent her grief.
The nymphs aſſembling us’d their utmoſt art,
The ſad Lucina’s ſorrows to beguile:
Vain was th’ attempt to eaſe her bleeding heart,
Or from her eye extort a cheerful ſmile.
At lateſt hour, when each auſpicious light
Seem’d hid in chaos—Cynthia’s ſilver beam
Withdrew its luſtre on that fatal night,
Nor bleſs’d the ſhade, nor wanton’d in the ſtream.
Her auburne locks the mournful maiden tore,
Her downy pillow could afford no reſt;
She wander’d where the ſwelling ſurges roar,
In wild deſpair ſhe beat her ſnowy breaſt!
From Annon’s cliff, ſhe view’d the breaking wave;
Philander was her laſt, her darling theme;
No hand was near the frantic maid to ſave,
And, Sappho-like, love’s victim ſhe became!
Ye rigid parents, with attentive ear,
Inſtruction learn, from this ſad tale of wo:
Ye heedleſs maids, in time the danger fear,
That wrought Lucina’s fatal overthrow.
The Envied Kiss.
And was it thine to ſhare the bliſs,
For which ſo many ſigh in vain?
And did thy lips receive a kiſs
From James that honeſt-hearted ſwain?
Oft has Belinda tri’d her art,
In this her radiant charms did fail;
Oft Sylvia ſought to touch his heart,
But could not in the leaſt prevail.
Oft Chloe ſung in tender ſtrain,
Caliſta danc’d upon the green;
But James in haſte tripp’d o’er the plain,
And ſeem’d as though he had not ſeen.
Ulyſſes-like, he did defy
The Syren’s moſt enchanting voice;
In vain Matilda’s ſparkling eye
Did labour hard to fix his choice.
Thou little, happy, ſmiling fair,
And didſt thou then the victor prove?
Is James now caught in Cupid’s ſnare,
And taught by thee to kiſs and love?
If in thy early infant ſtate,
Thou mak’ſt ſuch ſtubborn hearts to yield,
Wat conqueſts do thy charms await,
When ripen’d beauties grace the field?
Does baleful Envy rear its creſt,
For this one favour now obtain’d?
Sure rage will ſwell each female breaſt,
When o’er mankind thy empire’s gain’d.
Then gentle charmer pity have,
Nor ſigh for conqueſts ever new:
In haſte ſome fond Amyntor ſave,
And let us hear no more of you.
The Young Man’s Resolution.
By Cupid and Bacchus I’m ſadly perplex’d,
Both parties to hear I incline:
The urchin for ever comments on this text,
Beware of the juice of the vine.
Then Bacchus appears, with a cup in his hand,
Says, Drink, and you’ll drown ev’ry care;
But mind, ere you taſte, I’ll a promiſe demand,
That you fly from the lips of the fair.
O, ſad the dilemma! pray, what muſt I do?
With Bacchus I never can part:
Ah! dear little God, if neglected by you,
It will rend ev’ry ſtring of my heart.
O why ſuch a pother? I’ve found out a way,
I’ll bind myſelf faſt by an oath,
While life warms my breaſt, each his pow’r ſhall diſplay,
And I’ll henceforth be loyal to both.
To a Young Man Under Sentence of Death for Forgery. From His Mistress.
In awful ſolitude, in direful chains,
Where deep deſpair and ſad reflection reigns,
If yet thy breaſt another’s woes can feel,
Woes which no language ever can reveal,
Let the diſtreſſes of a hapleſs maid,
Be to thy ſilent gloomy cell convey’d.
Life left my heart, I felt my blood run cold,
When the ſad tidings of thy fate were told:106 G7v 102
Then keeneſt anguiſh wrung my tortur’d frame,
Diſtraction ſeem’d to ſeize my madd’ning brain.
Depriv’d of thee, who could all pain remove,
My heav’n on earth, my happineſs, my love;
Depriv’d of hope, whoſe dear, deluſive ray
Did ſofteſt ſcenes of happineſs, portray:
Scenes now for ever fled! the poignant dart,
Deep wounds my ſoul, and tears my bleeding heart.
For thee, no more, I’ll wait th’ appointed hour,
No more I’ll meet thee in the peaceful bower;
No more, enraptur’d, hang upon thy ſmile,
No more thy preſence ev’ry care beguile.
Was it for me? grant ſupport gracious heav’n!
Was it for me the fatal bond was giv’n?
Is it for me ſtern Juſtice muſt ariſe?
Is it for me he now a victim lies?
Diſtracting thoughts ſtill crowd upon my mind!
O were my reſtleſs ſoul to heav’n reſign’d!107 G8r 103
O could I now my piercing griefs conceal,
Nor add freſh anguiſh to the wounds you feel!
’Tis vain, alas! my burſting heart o’erflows,
And death I feel will terminate my woes!
It was for thee alone I wiſh’d to live;
The world without thee can no pleaſure give.
Now law for one raſh act thy life demands
Tho’ pure till then thy thoughts, unſtain’d thy hands:
While villains hourly practis’d in deceit,
At freedom range, nor dread impending fate.
Ah! now I ſee thee to the ſcaffold walk,
I hear the gazing crowd unthinking talk.
Farewell, my love! O ſtill on heaven rely,
I can no more, I tremble, faint and die!
On an Unlooked-For Separation from a Friend.
Transient proves our ſweeteſt pleaſure,
Short our moments of delight;
While we graſp the darling treaſure,
O how rapid is its flight?
Oft at morn ourſelves we flatter,
That our comforts wont decay:
Fortune laviſh ſeems to ſcatter
Faireſt flowers along our way.
But the change by night is galling;
We lament our doom ſevere:
Joys, like ſnows on Ailſa falling,
In a moment diſappear.
Such the plague of human nature,
Fond to trifle with our ſmart,
While we do eſcape the greater,
Little evils rend our heart.
I have loſt no valu’d charter,
Nor lament a fickle ſwain;
But, alas! a friend’s departure,
Fills my heart with piercing pain.
Pond’ring ſharpens ev’ry arrow,
Sighing but augments my grief:
Now I mourn, o’erwhelm’d with ſorrow,
But next hour may bring relief.
Written 1792-01-01January First, 1792.
To-day old wrinkl’d Time appears;
A ſmile adorns his brow,
While to our liſt of fleeting years,
He adds the ninety-two.
Our fav’rite hopes, that ſwiftly glide,
Announce his ſteps too ſlow,
Leſt Diſappointment’s haſty ſtride
Should ev’ry bliſs o’erthrow.
He ſoftly creeps along the way,
While we his progreſs watch:
He turns his back, vain our eſſay
His bald-pate then to catch.
On his right hand a lovely dame,
In robes of crimſon hue;
Her eyes our admiration claim,
Her form attracts our view;
Diſtant her air, ſtaid, ſapient, mild,
A figure fine and tall;
By Wiſdom own’d, her legal child,
Who did her Prudence call.
With vermil lips, in accents ſweet,
Soft as that falling ſnow,
Theſe words I heard the nymph repeat,
Addreſs’d to all below:
In Virtue’s cauſe exert your pow’rs,
Let her your actions ſway;
Employ with ſpeed the paſſing hours,
Nor truſt another day.
On his left hand, with tardy pace,
Here walks a maid forlorn;
Lank hunger painted on her face,
Her ſcanty raiment torn:
Rich Luxury her father deem’d,
Idle her dam confeſs’d;
In public by no man eſteem’d,
In ſecret much careſs’d.
With ſmirking ſmile, and ſpeeches fair,
She does us kindly greet;
But ſage Experience cries, Beware!
She’ll prove an arrant cheat.
This now the lazy warrior finds,
His ſword with ruſt adorn’d;
Half plann’d as yet his dire deſigns,
His conqueſts unperform’d.
She’ll ſpoil the politician’s ſcheme,
The patriot’s gen’rous toil;
For Sloth is the impoſtor’s name,
O deign her not a ſmile.
She whiſper’d in young Strephon’s ear,
When Delia ſeem’d to frown,
That ſoon ſhe’d change that look ſevere,
And all his wiſhes crown.
Lull’d in her ſoft, alluring chain,
His ſucceſs did prevent;
Till Delia found an active ſwain,
And left him to lament.
Poor Chloe’s comrade, air and late,
While pow’rs ſhe had to charm;
Thoſe gone, ſhe feels the ſad deceit,
And gives the loud alarm.
In vain each ſpecious art ſhe tries;
Vain the coſmetic aid:
She muſt be what all ranks deſpiſe,
An old forſaken maid.
Sloth, of ſociety the peſt,
Of ev’ry bliſs the bane,
May we the latent ills deteſt,
Which form thy direful train.
Our helm let Prudence ever ſteer;
She’ll ſhield us from the blaſt;
And ev’ry new, revolving year,
Remind us of our laſt.
Direct our courſe to yonder ſhore,
Where virtue ever reigns;
Where time and ſeaſons are no more;
Where death is bound in chains.
Unvari’d there the bliſsful ſcene,
’Mid ſeraphims above,
All pure, all placid, and ſerene,
All harmony and love.
On a Visit to Mr Burns.
Is’t true? or does ſome magic ſpell
My wond’ring eye beguile?
Is this the place where deigns to dwell
The honour of our iſle?
The charming Burns, the Muſe’s care,
Of all her ſons the pride;
This pleaſure oft I’ve ſought to ſhare,
But been as oft deni’d.
Oft have my thoughts, at midnight hour,
To him excurſions made;
This bliſs in dreams was premature,
And with my ſlumbers fled.
’Tis real now, no viſion here
Bequeaths a poignant dart;
I’ll view the poet ever dear,
Whoſe lays have charm’d my heart.
Hark! now he comes, a dire alarm
Re-echoes through his hall!
Pegaſus The name of the Poet’s horſe. kneel’d, his rider’s arm
Was broken by a fall.
The doleful tidings to my ears
Were in harſh notes convey’d;
His lovely wife ſtood drown’d in tears,
While thus pond’ring ſaid:
No cheering draught, with ills unmix’d,
Can mortals taſte below;
All human fate by heavn’n is fix’d,
Alternate joy and wo.
With beating breaſt I view’d the bard;
All trembling did him greet:
With ſighs bewail’d his fate ſo hard,
Whoſe notes were ever ſweet.
Given to a Lady Who Asked Me to Write A Poem.
In royal Anna’s golden days,
Hard was the taſk to gain the bays:
Hard was it then the hill to climb;
Some broke a neck, ſome loſt a limb.
The vot’ries for poetic fame,
Got aff decrepit, blind, an’ lame:
Except that little fellow Pope,
Few ever then got near its top:
An’ Homer’s crutches he may thank,
Or down the brae he’d got a clank.
Swift, Thomſon, Addiſon, an’ Young
Made Pindus echo to their tongue,118 H5v 114
In hopes to pleaſe a learned age;
But Doctor Johnſton, in a rage,
Unto poſterity did ſhew
Their blunders great, their beauties few.
But now he’s dead, we weel may ken;
For ilka dunce maun hae a pen,
To write in hamely, uncouth rhymes;
An’ yet forſooth they pleaſe the times.
A ploughman chiel, Rab Burns his name,
Pretends to write; an’ thinks nae ſhame
To ſouſe his ſonnets on the court;
An’ what is ſtrange, they praiſe him for’t.
Even folks, wha ’re of the higheſt ſtation,
Ca’ him the glory of our nation.
But what is more ſurpriſing ſtill,
A milkmaid muſt tak up her quill;
An’ ſhe will write, ſhame fa’ the rabble!
That think to pleaſe wi’ ilka bawble.
They may thank heav’n, auld Sam’s aſleep:
For could he ance but get a peep,
He, wi’ a vengeance wad them ſen’
A’ headlong to the dunces’ den.
Yet Burns, I’m tauld, can write wi’ eaſe,
An’ a’ denominations pleaſe;
Can wi’ uncommon glee impart
A uſefu’ leſſon to the heart;
Can ilka latent thought expoſe,
An’ Nature trace whare’er ſhe goes:
Of politics can talk wi’ ſkill,
Nor dare the critics blame his quill.
But then a ruſtic country quean
To write—was e’er the like o’t ſeen?
A milk maid poem-books to print;
Mair fit ſhe wad her dairy tent;
Or labour at her ſpinning wheel,
An’ do her wark baith ſwift an’ weel.
Frae that ſhe may ſome profit ſhare,
But winna frae her rhyming ware.
Does ſhe, poor ſilly thing, pretend
The manners of our age to mend?
Mad as we are, we’re wiſe enough
Still to deſpiſe ſic paultry ſtuff.
May ſhe wha writes, of wit get mair,
An’ a’ that read an ample ſhare
Of candour ev’ry fault to ſcreen,
That in her dogg’ral ſcrawls are ſeen.
All this and more, a critic ſaid;
I heard and ſunk behind the ſhade:
So much I dread their cruel ſpite,
My hand ſtill trembles when I write.
Epistle to Nell, Wrote from Loudoun Castle.
Dear Nell with your long ſilence griev’d,
Your welcome miſſive I receiv’d,
And have in haſte tane up the pen,
Some incoherent rhyme to ſen’:
As time for ſtudy is but ſcarce,
Accept extemporary verſe.
To Loudoun Caſtle well I got;
It is a moſt delightfu’ ſpot.
The houſe, tho’ built before the flood,
Remains as yet both firm and good:122 H7v 118
The more to decorate the place,
Our parents do the portals grace.
There Adam ſtands, a comely man,
Eve wi’ the apple in her han’:
In Eden’s yard the fruit was ſweet,
But here ſhe has not got it eat.
A garden large, and hedges high,
O’er which an eagle ſcarce could fly;
Odorif’rous flowers of vari’d hue,
In ilka bord’ring walk we view.
Trees in full bloom, whoſe fruits excel,
When ripe, the roſe’s fragrant ſmell;
The plains a pleaſing proſpect yield,
And plenty decks the fertile field.
Each beauteous arbour forms a ſhade,
As if for contemplation made.
The trees in ſtately rows appear,
And ev’ry thing ſeems charming here;
Did not the hungry raven’s throat
So far outvie the blackbird’s note;
Did not the ill forboding owl,
At midnight, from dark caverns howl.
But Nell, in human life you know,
Our ſweets are ever mix’d with wo.
In vain for happineſs we ſue,
While as the meteor keeps in view,
With hearts elate, we graſp the prize;
The charm is fled, the phantom dies!
What ſtock ſoe’er the miſers have,
The heart will ever ſomething crave;
Which, when poſſeſt, not ſoothes the mind,
But leaves an anxious blank behind.
What tho’ no bags of gold we’ve got?
We may be happy in our lot;
And with our little ſtill content,
Our all perhaps will ne’er be ſpent:
And while we ſomething have in ſtore,
Why ſhould we ſigh or pine for more?
While you, my friend, in beauteous, rural lay,
The ancient pile, and circling ſcenes diſplay,
Enthuſiaſtic rapture fires my ſoul,
And admiration reigns without controul.
Methinks, while I your charming theme purſue,
That Loudoun caſtle riſes to my view.
I ſee, or is it fancy that portrays?
The proſpect ſtand before my ardent gaze:
Surpris’d I ſee a new Elyſium riſe,
In pomp auguſt, before my wond’ring eyes.
With joy I view the ſweetly, vari’d ſcene,
The winding vale, and groves of vernal green.
The garden will my fancy long detain,
And thoſe fair fields that wave with yellow grain.125 I1r 121
The blooming trees that form a ſylvan ſhade,
And thoſe ſweet bow’rs for contemplation made.
Would ſome propitious pow’r but grant my boon,
Send ſome kind genii with an air-balloon;
Take me aloft, and ſafe convey with care,
Straight to the bonny blooming banks of Air;
To Loudoun caſtle ſoon I’d bend my way,
And all its beauties joyfully ſurvey.
The gothic ſtructure, and its fair domains,
Moſt amply would compenſate all my pains.
With you, dear Jenny, I would paſs ſome hours,
Amongſt its ſhady walks and fragrant bow’rs.
Of poetry and poets talk by turns,
And pleas’d make comments on the far- fam’d Burns.
Another Epistle to Nell.
While Phœbus did our ſummer arbours cheer,
And joys Autumnal crown’d our circling year;
Even then my thoughts to you excurſions made,
And ardently the bypaſt ſcenes ſurvey’d;
Where oft we met in Eccles’s peaceful bow’rs,
While ſocial pleaſure mark’d the paſſing hours.
From theſe ſweet ſcenes I found myſelf remov’d,
I fear’d no more remember’d or belov’d.127 I2r 123
Forgot by Nell, whoſe friendſhip ſeem’d ſincere,
Such cold neglect, who undiſturb’d could bear?
Mild Autumn now reſigns to rougher ſkies,
And frightful ſtorms, in wild commotion, rise.
The tempeſt howls, while dark December reigns,
And ſcatters deſolation o’er the plains.
Juſt as the ſun burſts from the wintry cloud,
Which oft does now his native glory ſhroud,
Your welcome letter cheers my anxious ſoul;
For humour, wit, and friendſhip grace the whole.
Well pleaſ’d I find you on Parnaſſus’ hill;
The more I read, the more I prize your ſkill.
The Muſes coy, you ſeem to catch with eaſe,
And unfatigu’d attain the art to pleaſe.
Go on, dear Nell, the laureate-wreath purſue,
In time perhaps you may receive your due.I2 128 I2v 124
We’ll beat the buſhes for the ruſtic muſe,
Where ev’ry dunce her inſpiration ſues.
’Mongſt the vaſt crowd, let you and I aſpire
To ſhare a little of Apollo’s fire.
If Fortune prove, like Cupid, ever blind,
We may perhaps ſome petty favour find;
But if no more we gain by theſe our lays,
We’ll pleaſe ourſelves with one another’s praiſe.
An Epistle to a Lady.
While Morcham does your much lov’d preſence ſhare,
And Lydia’s health claims your maternal care,
O Madam, deign with candour to peruſe
A ruſtic lay, preſented by the Muſe.
From Loudoun’s plains ſhe now awakes the lyre,
And gladly would to arduous feats aſpire.
On the ſmooth margin of the ſtream reclin’d,
She fondly hopes to pleaſe a taſte refin’d.
What tho’ ſhe boaſt of no peculiar charm,
That would the critic of his force diſarm?
She humbly deprecates your doom ſevere,
And fain would wiſh to find you partial here.I3 130 I3v 126
The Muſe alone does this indulgence claim,
Elſe it were impious ſuch a thought to frame.
Would you from Morcham caſt your mental eye,
And the receſſes of our caſtle ſpy,
You’d ſee Honoria, in her elbow chair,
A mind at eaſe, thoughts unperplex’d with care;
With aſpect mild, explore the ſacred page,
Guide of her youth, and comfort of her age:
In conduct prudent, and in counſel wiſe;
Her friendſhip ev’ry virtuous mind muſt prize.
Then view the pair, in bonds of Hymen bleſt,
With little Cupid’s flutt’ring round their breaſt.
The bliſs that’s mutual, all their thoughts employ,
Whoſe ſocial hearts partake no ſelfiſh joy.
To pleaſe each other proves their conſtant aim,
While ev’ry act endears the tender claim
Matilda too, your notice muſt demand;
To paint would here require a Raphael’s hand:
To trace the radient beauties of her mind,
Shall be a taſk for nobler pens aſſign’d.
I’d rather far her little foibles ſcan,
Though ſtrict inſpection finds no more than one.
Such anxious care on others ſhe beſtows,
She quite forgets what to herſelf ſhe owes.
Vouchſafe the charming Celia next a look,
Her mind ſerene, and in her hand a book:
Eyes, which at will, can pleaſure give or pain,
On ſtupid Humphry Clinker ſhine in vain.
As through the hall and kitchen now you paſs,
Pray deign to peep among the lower claſs:
The cook’s at work; but, madam, who can know
Whether her hands or tongue more ſwiftly go?
They’re nimble both; but diff’rent is th’ effect;
One merits praiſe, the other diſreſpect.I4 132 I4v 128
Poor Mary ſighs beneath a load of woes,
Hard and uneaſy ev’ry turn ſhe does:
How light ſoe’er the taſk, ſhe’ll pond’ring ſay,
Ah! Is there not a lion in the way?
Will ſeems in haſte his maſter’s boots to clean,
Old James is driving Turkeys o’er the green,
Our crazy-pated dairy-maid juſt now
Is ſcribbling o’er theſe ſenſeleſs lines to you.
Hark! there’s a call, O pardon what I’ve penn’d;
I’m ſure you’re glad my letter’s at an end.
From Snipe, a Favourite Dog, to His Master.
O best of good maſters, your mild diſpoſition
Perhaps may induce you to read my petition:
Believe me in earneſt, though acting the poet,
My breaſt feels the ſmart, and mine actions do ſhew it.
At morn when I riſe, I go down to the kitchen,
Where oft I’ve been treated with kicking and ſwitching.
There’s nothing but quiet, no toil nor vexation,
The cookmaid herſelf ſeems poſſeſs’d of diſcretion.
The ſcene gave ſurpriſe, and I could not but love it,
Then found ’twas becauſe ſhe had nothing to covet.
From thence to the dining-room I took a range ſir,
My heart ſwells with grief when I think of the change there;
No diſhes well dreſs’d, with their flavour to charm me,
Nor even ſo much as a fire to warm me.
For bread I ranſack ev’ry corner with caution,
Then trip down the ſtair in a terrible paſſion.
I go with old James, when the ſoſs is a dealing,
But brutes are voracious and void of all feeling;135 I6r 131
They quickly devour’t; not a morſel they leave me,
And then by their growling ill nature they grieve me.
My friend Jenny Little pretends to reſpect me,
And yet ſir at meal-time ſhe often neglects me:
Of late ſhe her breakfaſt with me would have parted,
But now eats it all, ſo I’m quite broken hearted.
O haſte back to Loudoun, my gentle good maſter,
Relieve your poor Snipy from ev’ry diſaſter.
A ſight of yourſelf would afford me much pleaſure,
A ſhare of your dinner an excellent treaſure,
Preſent my beſt wiſhes unto the good lady,
Whoſe plate and potatoes to me are ay ready:
When puſs and I feaſted ſo kindly together;
But now quite forlorn we condole with each other.136 I6v 132
No more I’ll inſiſt, leſt your patience be ended;
I beg by my ſcrawl, ſir, you’ll not be offended;
But mind, when you ſee me aſcending Parnaſſus,
The need that’s of dogs there to drive down the Aſſes.
On the Death of J—. H—. Esq: 1790-06June, 1790.
Ere Phœbus’ beams exhal’d the pearly dew,
While hoary moiſture all the fields o’erſpread,
Where ozier cypreſs, and the drooping yew,
Had form’d a muſing melancholy ſhade.
Belinda ſat, bedew’d with briny tears,
The echoing grove her deep-fetch’d ſighs retain;
Her plaintive note diſtreſs’d my liſt’ning ears,
While in low accents thus ſhe did complain.
And is the pleaſing ſcene, alas! no more!
Corroſive grief now on my vitals prey!
Diſtreſs’d, in ſighs I ſpend the heavy hour,
Nor feel of comfort one auſpicious ray!
Now gloomy viſions hover round my bed,
More ſadd’ning thoughts my waking hours employ!
Hope’s balmy whiſpers are for ever fled,
And far remov’d is ev’ry gleam of joy!
My former days can never more return;
Each future proſpect darkens on my view;
Life’s rugged paths ſeem dreary and forlorn;
No kindly hand does there ſweet flow’rets ſtrew.
Alas! on life’s tempeſtuous ocean toſt,
Become a prey to each high ſwelling wave,
My ev’ry hope of happineſs is loſt――
Laid in the ſilent, ſolitary grave!
No more, O death! thy pointed ſhafts I dread!
Thy keeneſt darts I hourly wiſh to ſhare;
Since my lov’d Henry’s number’d with the dead,
Nought in this world can now engage my care!
Ah! what to me avails the radiant ſky,
The verdant meadow, or the vocal grove?
No kind companion ſhares the melting joy,
And tunes his lute to melody and love.
He was――but oh! no language can expreſs――
What my lov’d Henry ever was to me:
My joy in health, my ſupport in diſtreſs,
My lover, friend, and tender huſband he.
For me a parent’s love he did forego,
With all the pleaſures of his native ſhore:
On me alone did ev’ry care beſtow;
He ſaw me happy, and he wiſh’d no more.
Keen recollection animates my pain,
And all my pleaſures paſt augment my woes;
Yet fond remembrance ſhall thoſe joys retain,
While vital life within this boſom flows.
Thus ſpoke Belinda, on the turf reclin’d;
No ray of hope her ſadd’ning fancy cheer’d:
When from a thicket, as by heav’n deſign’d,
A nymph celeſtial in her ſight appear’d.
Her flowing robes wav’d in the ambient air;
A flow’ry wreath her modeſt temples grac’d;
Her preſence kindly ſmooth’d the brow of care,
And all the horrors of the ſcene effac’d.
Array’d in heav’nly ſmiles ſhe onward came;
Vain phantoms her ſuperior pow’r confeſt:
She view’d the ſad, dejected, mournful dame,
And thus in ſoothing accents her addreſs’d.
Do not Belinda at thy fate repine,
Nor by thy tears augment the pond’rous load;
The lovely youth muſt be no longer thine:
He’s gone, ſuch is the ſov’reign will of God.
He’s gone to flouriſh in a fairer ſoil,
A plant too noble for this noxious clime:
Where virtue muſt triumphant ever ſmile,
He’ll ſhare of joys extatic and ſublime.
Vain are thy ſorrows, vain the ſighs of thoſe,
Who did his favour of his friendſhip ſhare:
He’s gone beyond the reach of human woes,
Above the weight of ev’ry worldy care.
Pure were the virtues center’d in his breaſt,
With unaſſuming rectitude they ſway’d:
His tongue the dicates of his heart expreſs’d,
While his mild manners more than words convey’d!
But human bliſs is of a tranſient date,
Nor permanent thy woes, tho’ now ſevere:
Soon ſhall you meet in a celeſtial ſtate,
And then no more the pangs of parting fear.
On the Birth of J――. H――. Esq.’s Son. 1790-11-15November 15, 1790.
Dear lovely babe, with hearts elate,
We hail thy natal hour:
Here does the Muſe impatient wait,
Libations kind to pour.
Upon a theme ſo new, ſo ſweet,
She now attempts to ſing:
No foreign aid ſhe needs invite,
To touch the vocal ſtring.
But while with anxious thoughts on thee,
And ardent look, I gaze,
Can I the valiant hero ſee,
To animate my lays?
The plodding philoſophic eye,
Shall I attempt to ſcan?
Or in thy infant ſmiles deſcry
The politicians plan?
Too hard the taſk, my humble muſe
Can boaſt of no ſuch art;
Though hope, on flutt’ring pinions does
All this and more impart.
While fondl’d by a mother kind,
Thou checks the falling tears,
When thy lov’d father to her mind
In ev’ry charm appears.
Each ſoft, each winning grace,
She does in thee, her darling child,
With fond remembrance trace.
And that the virtues he poſſeſs’d
May in thy boſom glow,
She does indulgent heav’n requeſt,
Who mitigates her wo.
May he, on whom her hope relies,
Protect thy lovely form,
While ſudden blaſts impetuous riſe
In life’s tempeſtuous ſtorm.
For thee, be calm the rolling flood,
Be ſtill the bluſt’ring wave:
May’ſt thou be bleſs’d with every good
A mother’s heart can crave.
On a Gentleman’s Proposing to Travel 300 Miles to See J――. H――. Esq.’s Child.
Is it true! does Alonzo from London propoſe
A viſit to Scotia’s bleak plain,
Ere the beams of bright Sol have diſperſed our ſnows,
Or the warblers enliven’d their ſtrain?
Does the city prove irkſome, inſipid the ball,
Nor the theatre claim a delay?
Is it friendſhip or int’reſt that uſhers the call,
Which he ſeems in ſuch haſte to obey?
I aſk’d, and in whiſpers, by Fame I was told,
That his heart was by int’reſt unmov’d,
That the ties of pure friendſhip were ſtronger than gold,
And it’s exquiſite charms he had prov’d.
But ah! he is gone, whoſe reception ſo kind,
Would have fully compenſate his toil!
Can the ſight of a babe give ſolace to his mind,
Or reward the fatigue by a ſmile?
Let the trifling vain clamours of ſtoics bemute,
While friendſhip directeth the ſcales:
Let them wonder, but never attempt to diſpute,
While ſelf o’er their feelings prevails.
In vain let them gueſs what Alonzo muſt know,
Since friendſhip each action inſpires;
His preſence will tend to alleviate wo,
That done, it is all he deſires.
Verses Written on a Foreigner’s Visiting the Grave of a Swiss Gentleman, Buried Among the Descendents of Sir William Wallace, Guardian of Scotland in the Thirteenth Century.
Our regal ſeat to Edward fallen a prey,
Our Chief’s inſulted corſe his victim lay;
Our ruin’d land no monument could raiſe;
Yet grateful bards ſtill ſung his heart-felt praiſe.
Long ages hence her hero ſtill ſhe’ll mourn;
Still her brave ſons with emulation burn.
His ſpirit guarding ſtill our native place,
Proclaims this mandate to his lateſt race:
Let ſacred truth bid living fame be thine;
Ne’er truſt for honour to a ſculptur’d ſhrine.
Thoſe modeſt merits marbles ne’er impart,
Love writes them deepeſt on the human heart.
Thus mid thy race did their lov’d Henry dwell,
Whoſe duſt ſhall mix thy memory with Tell: A famous Swiſs chief
Truth, honour, ſpirit, animate that form,
Which beauty, grace, and ſymmetry adorn.
Here that rich bloſſom dropp’d, ſcarce fairly blown;
The friend, the huſband, father we bemoan!
Wail by the grave a mother’s cheerleſs throes,
And ſhare a widow’s agonizing woes!
Dear youth, thy name to lateſt time deſcends,
Where gentle virtues made mankind thy friends.
From no vain marble need you borrow fame;
Truth, love and friendſhip, here embalm thy name.
A parent’s ſilver hairs beſtrew thy ſhrine;
Her griefs were mortal, but her joys ſublime:
In tears we mourn the body laid to reſt;
She hails thy ſpotleſs ſoul ’mid angels bleſt.
From Philander to Eumenes.
With pleaſure I your welcome letter read,
While Cupid for a little from me fled.
With freedom write, diſpel your trivial fears;
There’s nought preſumptuous in your ſong appears;
Tho’ ſtrange th’ ideas which you now convey,
While you our lovely females thus portray.
No doubt, there are, in the promiſcuous crowd,
The worthleſs fair, the virtuous and the good;
The haughty nymph, the maid of humble mind;
Th’ imperious, yea, the gentle and the kind;149 K5r 145
Such as an adamantine heart could charm,
And furious tygers of their rage diſarm.
In all viciſſitudes of human life,
Man’s greateſt bleſſing is a virtuous wife:
Her ſmiles can’t fail to ſooth his anxious breaſt,
Diffuſing joy, while various cares moleſt:
Her prudent counſel ſwift relief can bring,
As Abigail appeaſed Iſr’el’s king.
Nor need I thus the ſacred annals trace,
In Britain’s Iſle they claim the higheſt place;
When dire oppreſſion, with uplifted hand,
His yoke extended o’er our native land,
Our ſires to abject ſlavery were doom’d,
Our mothers all their ancient claims reſum’d:
You’ll ſay my ſpeeches do me partial prove,
And ſo aſcribe the cruel cauſe to love.
Are you alone exempt from ſuch a gueſt?
Are you of every antidote poſſeſ’d
T’ effect a cure, or mitigate the pain?
Then may the archer caſt his ſhafts in vain.
Of late dear friend I did ſuch valour boaſt;
But by one fatal glance the field was loſt.150 K5v 146
While you are free of dangers, ſill beware;
Be warn’d by me, and ſhun th’ alluring ſnare.
It is by ſome deem’d cowardice to fly,
But ſure it more ignoble is to die:
To die, I’m frantic, ſir; what did I ſay?
Reaſon once more reſume thy wonted ſway;
Kind heaven defend us from ſuch dire alarms;
Who would a victim fall to female charms?
I find I’m better while your lines I read,
I’m almoſt from my Gallic fetters free’d.
As you alone were partner of my grief,
Pray now congratulate my quick relief.
I would not by prolixity offend;
Both bound and free, Philander is your friend.
Sylvia and Armeda.
Why doſt Sylvia penſive ſit?
Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow?
Oft haſt thou cheer’d us by thy wit,
Why thus reſerv’d and ſullen now?
Haſt thou thy little lap-dog loſt?
Can Celia’s dreſs excite envy?
Is Flavia now the fav’rite toaſt,
Or doſt thou for a lover ſigh?
Be Flavia ſtill the toaſt of beaux;
Such trifles ne’er could give me pain:
But know the cauſe of all my woes,
The dear Alonzo’s left the plain.
His muſic oft has charm’d the grove;
So ſoft his pipe, ſo ſweet his air:
None heard, but felt the power of love,
’Mong all the nymphs aſſembl’d there.
Not Philomel’s delightful ſtrain
Could ſuch extatic joys impart,
As did thy notes, O darling ſwain!
Which well can cheer the anxious heart.
His count’nance as Aurora bright,
His ſmiles gave joy to all around:
In virtue, wit, and all that’s right,
Alonzo’s equal ne’er was found.
To Anna’sAnnan’s banks, alas! he’s gone;
To Eccles fam’d for maidens fair;
And, to augment my grievous moan,
I dread ſome pow’rful rival there.
O Sylvia, all your fears are vain;
I’ve ſeen the nymphs diſplay their art,
To captivate your charming ſwain;
But none can there engage his heart.
Inſenſible he ſeems to grow;
Defies the little armed boy:
From his lov’d horſe, a fatal throw
Does more his anxious thoughts employ.
Than Cupid’s arrows more ſevere,
The wounds he got his cares now prove:
Can Sylvia think it ſtrange to hear
Alonzo quite forgets his love?
Forgets to love! that muſt not be;
Sure Sylvia would be wretched then.
Alonzo, when depriv’d of thee,
Rough winter ſtill deforms the plain.
O haſten and diſpel my fears!
The birds with thee more ſweetly ſing.
O crown with joy revolving years!
Thy preſence gives perpetual ſpring.
The Captivated Soldier.
Ye ſwains unacquainted with love,
Attend to my pitiful lay:
My pipe ſhall reſound through the grove,
And my woes in ſad accents diſplay.
Long time I with freedom did range;
With indiff’rence I gaz’d on the fair:
Now my heart, how affecting the change!
Matilda has caught in the ſnare.
Ah me! how unlucky the day,
When thoughtleſs I haſten’d to view?
A wedding was coming this way,
Nor dream’d I of what did enſue.
Matilda appear’d in her charms;
Her cheeks with ſoft bluſhes did glow:
My boſom was fill’d with alarms,
Nor knew I who wounded me ſo.
Her ſhape it is handſome; her air
Excels all the nymphs of the town:
Her eyes may with diamonds compare;
Her locks of the loveliest brown.
She ſwift from my preſence did fly.
I call’d, but ſhe anſwered me not:
She fear’d that ſome danger might be
Sly lurking beneath the red coat.
If red will affrighten my dear,
I’ll dreſs in the good ruſſet grey,
Abandon my ſword and my ſpear,
And caſt my bright armour away.
No more I’ll attend to the drum;
But take up my ſhuttle and weave:
From that ſure no danger can come,
Such clowns have no art to deceive.
No razor ſhall come on my face,
Nor powder be ſeen on my hair:
I’ll walk at no regular pace;
In brogues to my love I’ll repair.
O then, will ſhe hear my ſoft tale?
O then, will Matilda prove kind?
If ruſtics with her can prevail,
The ruſtic in me ſhe ſhall find.
On Reading Lady Mary Montague and Mrs. Rowe’s Letters.
As Venus by night, ſo Montague bright
Long in the gay circle did ſhine:
She tun’d well the lyre, mankind did admire;
They prais’d, and they call’d her divine.
This pride of the times, in far diſtant climes,
Stood high in the temple of Fame:
Britannia’s ſhore, then ceas’d to adore,
A greater the tribute did claim.
To ſue for the prize, fam’d Rowe did ariſe,
More bright than Apollo was ſhe:
Superior rays obtain’d now the bays,
And Montague bended the knee.
O excellent Rowe, much Britain does owe
To what you’ve ingen’ouſly penn’d:
Of virtue and wit, the model you’ve hit;
Who reads muſt you ever commend.
Would ladies purſue, the paths trod by you,
And jointly to learning aſpire,
The men ſoon would yield unto them the field,
And critics in ſilence admire.
Upon A Young Lady’s Breaking a Looking-Glass.
As round the room, with tentleſs ſpeed,
Young Delia tripp’d it finely,
A looking-glaſs, ſo Fate decreed,
She broke, but not deſign’dly.
A looking-glaſs of ancient date,
Its fall the belles lamented;
But all their ſorrow prov’d too late,
Its ruin none prevented.
When Anne the Britiſh ſceptre ſway’d,
’Twas plac’d in firm poſition;
Nor did a forward chamber-maid
E’er alter its condition.
No mirror better could deſcry
Th’ embrio of a pimple;
The rheum on a neglected eye;
The hoary hair or wrinkle.
Long time it did the chimney grace,
So awkward now and empty;
Its with a vengeance chang’d its place,
And broke in pieces twenty.
O Delia! mourn thy direful fate,
A thouſand ills portending!
Black omens now thy ſtars await,
’Gainſt which there’s no defending.
Poor Delia now, bedew’d with tears
And piti’d by acquaintance,
Reſolv’d to ſpend full fifteen years,
In doleful, deep repentance.
Do tears theſe lovely cheeks diſtain,
By thouſand charms ſurrounded!
Theſe eyes from weeping do refrain;
Their glance have many wounded.
T’ adorn thy more accompliſh’d mind,
Each radient grace conſpires:
Hence dread thou not their dark deſign,
Though rage each demon fires.
Let hope diffuſe a gentle ray,
Theſe magic ſpells defying:
Let prudence Delia’s footſteps ſway,
On virtue ſtill relying.
But know the rake’s alluring ſmile,
The heedleſs fair bewitches:
Let no fond youth your heart beguile,
By ſoft enticing ſpeeches.
And if good counſel aught avail,
Attend Diana’s claſſes:
For mind our ſex is ever frail,
And brittle as our glaſſes.
An Acrostic upon a Young Woman, Written by Her Lover.
Hail ſweeteſt charmer of the rural plain,
Accept the tribute of a humble ſwain;
Nor frown, tho’ he preſumpt’ous would eſſay;
No muſe your matchleſs beauties can diſplay.
All that is feign’d of the fair Cyprian queen.
Here in this lovely damſel may be ſeen.
In her fair form is ev’ry grace combin’d;
Virtue and modeſty adorn her mind.
If Milton’s eloquence did grace my lays,
Sure it would fail, and ſpeak but half her praiſe.
O Cupid fix an arrow in her breaſt!
No more I’d wiſh, were I of her poſſeſs’d.
An Extemporary Acrostic.
My Muſe, once more, thy aid I humbly claim;
Refuſe not now to grace my ruſtic lays.
Johnſton or Pope might well befit the theme
How dares my humble hand aſſume ſo high?
No common character inſpires my ſong,
His growing fame long ſince has reach’d the ſky:
All I can ſay but does his virtues wrong;
Let then my blund’ring pen in ſilence reſt;
Lo, ſilent admiration paints them beſt.
An Epistle to Mr. Robert Burns.
Fairfa’ the honeſt ruſtic ſwain,
The pride o’ a’ our Scottiſh plain;
Thou gi’es us joy to hear thy ſtrain,
And notes ſae ſweet;
Old Ramſay’s ſhade, reviv’d again,
In thee we greet.
Lov’d Thallia, that delightful muſe,
Seem’d long ſhut up as a recluſe:
To all ſhe did her aid refuſe,
Since Allan’s day,165 L5r 161
Till Burns aroſe, then did ſhe chooſe
To grace his lay.
To hear thy ſong, all ranks deſire;
Sae well thou ſtrik’ſt the dormant lyre.
Apollo, wi’ poetic fire,
Thy breaſt did warm,
An’ critics ſilently admire
Thy art to charm.
Ccæſar and Luath weel can ſpeak;
’Tis pity e’er their gabs ſhould ſteek:
They into human nature keek,
An’ knots unravel;
To hear their lectures ance a week,
Ten miles I’d travel.
Thy dedication to G―― H――,
In unco bonny, hameſpun ſpeech,
Wi’ winſome glee the heart can teach
A better leſſon,
Than ſervile bards wha fawn an’ fleech,
Like beggar’s meſſin.
When ſlighted love becomes thy theme,
An’ woman’s faithleſs vows you blame,
With ſo much pathos you exclaim,
In your Lament,
But glanc’d by the moſt frigid dame,
She wad relent.
The daiſy too, you ſing wi’ ſkill;
An’ weel ye praiſe the whiſky gill.
In vain I blunt my feckleſs quill,
Your fame to raiſe,
While echo ſounds, frae ilka hill,
To Burns’s praiſe.
Did Addiſon or Pope but hear,
Or Sam, that critic moſt ſevere,
A plough-boy ſing, wi’ throat ſae clear,
They, in a rage,
Their works wad a’ in pieces tear
An’ curſe your page.
If I ſhould ſtrain my rupy throat,
To raiſe thy praiſe wi’ ſwelling note,167 L6r 163
My rude, unpoliſh’d ſtrokes wad blot
Thy brilliant ſhine,
An’ ev’ry paſſage I would quote
Seem leſs ſublime.
The taſk I’ll drop; wi’ heart ſincere
To heav’n preſent a humble prayer,
That a’ the bleſſings mortals ſhare
May be, by turns,
Diſpens’d with an indulgent care
To Robert Burns.
To My Aunty.
My ever dear an’ worthy aunty,
Wha ne’er o’ wit nor lear was vaunty;
Yet often could, like honeſt grandam,
Unravel dreams; an’ whiles, at random,
Did truth in myſtic terms declare,
Which made us aft wi’ wonder ſtare.
Laſt night, when Morpheus ſoftly hurl’d
His ſilken ſceptre o’er the world,
Some anxious cares within my breaſt
Were ſilently conſign’d to reſt;
Yet did in ſleep their pow’r retain,
As ſhews the viſions of my brain.
My works I thought appear’d in print,
And were to diff’rent corners ſent,169 L7r 165
Whare patrons kind, but ſcant o’ ſkill,
Had ſign’d my ſuperſcription bill.
Voratious critics by the way,
Like eagles watching for their prey,
Soon caught the verſe wi’ aſpect ſour,
An’ did ilk feeble thought devour;
Nor did its humble, helpleſs ſtate,
One fraction of their rage abate.
Tom Touchy, one of high pretence
To taſte an’ learning, wit an’ ſenſe,
Was at the board the foremoſt man,
Its imperfections a’ to ſcan.
Soon as the line he ſeem’d to doubt,
The meaner critics ſcratch’d it out;
Still to be nam’d on Touchy’s ſide,
Was baith their int’reſt and their pride.
Will Haſty, in an unco rage,
Revis’d the volume page by page;
But aft was deem’d a ſtupid aſs,
For cens’ring what alone might paſs.
Jack Tim’rous gladly would have ſpoke,
But quiv’ring lips his ſentence broke;170 L7v 166
So much he fear’d a brother’s ſcorn,
The whole eſcap’d his claws untorn.
James Eaſy calm’d my throbbing heart,
An’ whiſp’ring told each man apart,
That he the volume much eſteem’d;
Its little faults he nothing deem’d:
An’ if his vote they would receive,
It might through countleſs ages live.
While I poor James’s ſpeech admir’d,
Tom Touchy at the ſound was fir’d:
And ah! it griev’d me much to find,
He prov’d him ſenſeleſs, deaf, and blind:
Then quick as thought, ere I could tell him,
Ilk critics club was up to fell him;
An’ as he, helpleſs, met the ſtroke,
I, ſtarting, trembl’d, ſyne awoke.
Now aunty, ſee this ſad narration,
Which fills my breaſt wi’ fair vexation;
An’ if you can ſome comfort gie me,
Make nae delay, but ſend it to me:
For I’m commanded by Apollo,
Your ſage advice in this to follow.
Some folk in courts for pleaſure ſue,
An’ ſome ranſack the theatre:
The airy nymph is won by few;
She’s of ſo coy a nature.
She ſhuns the great bedaub’d with lace,
Intent on rural jokin
An’ ſpite o’ breeding, deigns to grace
A merry Airſhire rockin,
Sometimes at night.
At Halloween, when fairy ſprites
Perform their myſtic gambols,
When ilka witch her neebour greets,
On their nocturnal rambles;
When elves at midnight-hour are ſeen,
Near hollow caverns ſportin,172 L8v 168
Then lads an’ laſſes aft convene,
In hopes to ken their fortune,
By freets that night.
At Jennet Reid’s not long ago,
Was held an annual meeting,
Of laſſes fair an’ fine alſo,
With charms the moſt inviting:
Though it was wat, an’ wondrous mirk,
It ſtopp’d nae kind intention;
Some ſprightly youths, frae Loudoun-kirk,
Did haſte to the convention,
Wi’ glee that night.
The nuts upon a clean hearthſtane
Were plac’d by ane anither,
An’ ſome gat lads, an’ ſome gat nane,
Juſt as they bleez’d the gither.
Some ſullen cooffs refuſe to burn;
Bad luck can ne’er be mended;
But or they a’ had got a turn,
The pokefu’ nits was ended
Owre ſoon that night.
A candle on a ſtick was hung,
An’ ti’d up to the kipple:
Ilk lad an’ laſs, baith auld an’ young,
Did try to catch the apple;
Which aft, in ſpite o’ a’ their care,
Their furious jaws eſcaped;
They touch’d it ay, but did nae mair,
Though greedily they gaped,
Fu’ wide that night.
The diſhes then, by joint advice,
Were plac’d upon the floor;
Some ſtammer’d on the toom ane thrice,
In that unlucky hour.
Poor Mall maun to the garret go,
Nae rays o’ comfort meeting;
Becauſe ſae aft ſhe’s anſwer’d no,
She’ll ſpend her days in greeting,
An’ ilka night.
Poor James ſat trembling for his fate;
He lang had dree’d the worſt o’t;
Though they had tugg’d and rugg’d till yet,
To touch the diſh he durſt not.M 174 M1v 170
The empty bowl, before his eyes,
Replete with ills appeared;
No man nor maid could make him riſe,
The conſequence he feared
Sae much that night.
Wi’ heartſome glee the minutes paſt,
Each act to mirth conſpired:
Was moſt of all admired.
From Janet’s bed a bolſter came,
Nor lad nor laſs was miſſing;
But ilka ane wha caught the ſame,
Was pleas’d wi’ routh o’ kiſſing,
Fu’ ſweet that night.
Soon as they heard the forward clock
Proclaim ’twas nine, they ſtarted,
An’ ilka laſs took up her rock;
Reluctantly they parted,
In hopes to meet ſome other time,
Exempt from falſe aſperſion;
Nor will they count it any crime,
To hae ſic like diverſion
Some future night.
On Seeing Mr. ―― Baking Cakes.
As Rab, who ever frugal was,
Some oat-meal cakes was baking,
In came a crazy ſcribbling laſs,
Which ſet his heart a-quaking.
I fear, ſays he, ſhe’ll verſes write,
An’ to her neebors ſhow it:
But troth I need na care a doit,
Though a’ the country knew it.
My cakes are good, none can object;
The maids will ca’ me thrifty;
To ſave a ſixpence on the peck
Is juſt an honeſt ſhifty.
They’re fair an’ thin, an’ crump, ’tis true;
You’ll own ſae when you ſee them;
But, what is better than the view,
Put out your han’ an’ pree them.
He ſpoke, an’ han’d the cakes about,
Whilk ev’ry eater prized;
Until the baſket was run out,
They did as he adviſed.
An’ ilka ane that got a ſhare,
Said that they were fu’ dainty;
While Rab cri’d eat, an’ dinna ſpare;
For I hae cakes in plenty.
And i’ the corner ſtan’s a cheeſe,
A glaſs an’ bottle by me;
Baith ale and porter when I pleaſe,
To treat the laſſes ſlily.
Some ca’ me wild an’ roving youth;
But ſure they are miſtaken:
The maid wha gets me, of a truth,
Her bread will ay be baken.
A Poem on Contentment.
Inscribed to Janet Nicol, a Poor Old Wandering Woman, Who Lives by the Wall at Loudoun and Used Sometimes to be Visited by the Countess.
O Janet, by your kind permiſſion,
My muſe, in tatter’d low condition,
Would fain attempt, if you’ll allow,
To dedicate a ſong to you.
Poſſeſ’d of few attractive pow’rs,
Her caſe does much reſemble yours;
So leſt none elſe ſhould deign to hear,
She humbly ſupplicates your ear.
Imprimis, ſhe ſhould compliment ye;
A Venus or Diana paint ye;
Count o’er your virtues by the hunder,
And own they’re more than ſhe can number.
This ſhe might do; but then ’t would grieve her,
To find no mortal did believe her.
She calls you patroneſs and friend,
And begs that bleſſings may attend
Upon you in your humble cot,
And keep your ’ſcutcheon free frae blot.
May ſweet contentment, hard to find,
With radient luſtre light your mind;
While numbers of your ſiſter train
Muſt for the treaſure pant in vain.
Bright Celia, with her conquering eyes,
Attempts to win the doubtful prize:
She darts a glance, ah! cruel maid,
Philander drops! a ſtrapping blade.
The youth as frantic now behaves;
Of love and flames, and darts he raves.
Not Eſculapius’ ſons can cure,
Nor eaſe the pangs he muſt endure.179 M4r 175
At laſt the charmer gives conſent;
Then Hymen does them both torment,
With nameleſs ills unknown before,
And ev’ry month augments the ſcore.
May ſtars propitious guard your life
From all the mis’ries of a wife:
Poor Delia’s ſighs and tears next prove
The pains of ill requited love.
She danc’d, had wit, was wondrous fair,
And ſeem’d Alonzo’s heart to ſnare.
True love and conſtancy he vow’d;
But this by all muſt be allow’d,
That young men’s tongues do not impart
The real language of their heart.
He wed another, ſad to tell!
And bad the mournful maid farewel.
O Janet, may you never know
The pangs that lovers undergo.
Cordelia too, with look demure,
Contentment wiſhes to enſure.M4 180 M4v 176
She flattering Cupid wont believe:
She knows that Hymen can deceive;
But fondly hopes in verſe to ſhine,
Aſſiſted by the tuneful Nine;
To call their treaſures all her own,
E’en in deſpite of fortune’s frown.
But weak, alas! is her pretence;
Her ſong proves deſtitute of ſenſe.
Each cavilling critic does her vex,
And ev’ry cenſure ſore perplex.
O may you never feel the pain,
We heedleſs ſcribbling fools ſuſtain.
A thouſand more from various views,
The gliding meteor ſwift purſues.
The Patriot toils, in penſive mood,
For honour and Britannia’s good.
The Courtier deems his Sov’reign’s ſmile
Would all his anxious cares beguile.
O Janet, ſhun the coxing tribe,
Who barter virtue for a bribe.
The Coxcomb’s care we well can gueſs;
He thinks the charm conſiſts in dreſs,181 M5r 177
Pomatum, powder, linens white,
Waſh-balls, perfumes, and mirrors bright.
The Miſer hopes his joys to hold,
Faſt lock’d within his bags of gold:
Thieves, moth and ruſt, corrupt his reſt;
May all his ſorrows be your jeſt.
The plodding ſage long years has ſpent
In ſearching for the gem content,
Which often does, I know not why,
In heaps of ruſtic rubbiſh lie.
And may my honeſt friend juſt now,
Without much queſt be found by you;
May your old ſhoes, your ſtaff and plaidy,
Be always for the journey ready:
And blithely may ilk neighbour greet you;
May cakes, and ſcones, and kibbocks meet you;
And may they weel ilk pocket cram,
And in your bottle ſlip a dram.
May your wee glaſs, your pipe and ſpecks,
Be ay preſerv’d frae doleful wrecks.
May your wee houſe, baith ſnug and warm,
Be ſafe frae ev’ry rude alarm182 M5v 178
Of wandering lovers, who’d eſſay
To make ſoft innocence their prey:
Or ruffians, caſt in rougher mould,
Whoſe ſordid boſoms beat for gold.
Content grows joy, in meeting there
The little, lovely, blooming fair,
Who makes thy cot and thee her care;
Whoſe gentle, gen’rous, noble mind,
Tho’ great and rich, can here prove kind;
Whoſe footſteps mark her path with peace,
Whoſe ſmile bids ev’ry ſorrow ceaſe;
For age and want, and wo provides
And over miſery preſides.
Her father’s worth, and mother’s charms
Eſteem and fond affection warms,
While kind D---f---s, with rapture ſpies,
The ſighing breaſt and ſwimming eyes;
Whoſe rays have found in James and thee,
The melting charm of miſery.
That charm much more the cherub moves,
Than did his gift of cooing doves;183 M6r 179
Whoſe hearts, leſs tender than her own,
Breathe forth their ever pleaſing moan.
Sweet innocence, in her we find;
Bright truth illuminates her mind:
Each action ſays, for her to give
It is more joy than to receive.
Let James and you for Loudoun pray,
Whoſe charms have lur’d me from my lay.
Janet farewel, you’ve lint and tow,
O keep your rock ay frae the low;
Tho’ turmoils torture land and ſea,
Content may ſmoke a pipe with thee.
When firſt Alcanzar to the town did come,
The people all believ’d that he was dumb:
In troops, with haſty ſteps, to him they went;
To get their fate preſag’d was their intent.
The man well vers’d was in the myſtic art,
And quick as thought could wondrous things impart.
Whoever were with anxious cares oppreſs’d,
Or on account of abſent friend diſtreſs’d,
Unto Alcanzar ſwiftly did repair,
Each of his purſe did amply make him ſhare.
It matters not how great the diſtance be,
A ſhip is rear’d, he wafts him o’er the ſea:
Tho’ in diſtreſs, them frees from ev’ry pain;
Dead or alive they now muſt croſs the main:
Bedaub’d with lace, of gold they’ve got great ſtore,
And ſwift he lands them on Britannia’s ſhore.
The nymphs and ſwains do next his aid demand;
He ties them all in Hymen’s ſilken band:
He does young Strephon with lov’d Delia bleſs,
Tho’ wont ere while to ſhun his fond addreſs.
Sly Sanders too, who loves and woos for gold,
Sees Susan’s charms down on the table told:
Cows, calves and horſes, plac’d before his ſight,
A widow rich will well his love requite.
Poor Celia next, who, for ſome fickle ſwain,
Spends days in ſorrow, and whole nights in pain:
It was his abſence caus’d the maid to mourn,
But fam’d Alcanzar made him ſoon return.
His antic geſtures did the fair one cheer,
And home ſhe went, releas’d from every fear.
Old Elſpa now comes trembling for her fate;
She would be wed, but fears it is too late:
Her locks, alas! are ſilver’d o’er with grey;
Yet to Alcanzar ſwift ſhe takes her way.186 M7v 182
She gave a ſixpence; Ladies mark the reſt,
She’s with a huſband and five children bleſt.
Here maids of fifty, widows of fourſcore,
May all get marri’d for a penny more.
But is the man like as his merit priz’d?
Ah no! he is by empty fools deſpis’d.
A crafty youth, Will Watſon was his name,
Did ſtrive to ruin great Alcanzar’s fame.
He dreſs’d himſelf all in a maid’s array,
Gown, ſtays and petticoat, extremely gay;
A muſlin head-dreſs, with a large toopee;
Few of our Ladies look’d ſo fine as he.
Up ſtreet he walk’d with a majeſtic air,
And to Alcanzar’s lodgings did repair.
Firſt gave a penny, then he ſhew’d his hand,
And did with down caſt eyes dejected ſtand:
But who can tell the ſequel without tears?
Alcanzar’s chalk too ſoon a cradle rears.
Who wont bewail this maid’s ſad deſtiny?
She pregnant proves, her lover gone to ſea.
Now all around upon the youth did gaze,
Such diſmal ſigns had fill’d them with amaze.187 M8r 183
Will gave a penny more; the ſage did bring
The lover home, and wed them with a ring.
Eight children too, he plac’d before their ſight
Will ſeem’d well pleaſ’d, and bade them all good night.
This might have paſs’d, had he the fact conceal’d;
But O ’twas cruel! Willy all reveal’d.
He thought indeed, but all his thoughts were vain,
The fam’d Alcanzar’s character to ſtain.
For one ſpoil’d diſh who would a meal deſpiſe!
Or for one ſmall miſtake condemn the wiſe?
From Alonzo to Delia.
To you my fair, the empreſs of my heart,
I’m urg’d to vent my pure, untainted flame;
Tho’ language faintly can my thoughts impart,
My ſwelling ſighs, your kind attention claim.
See Venus ſelf outrival’d by your charms:
Vain my attempt thy virtues to portray!
O come my darling haſten to my arms
Within my boſom ſtill you bear the ſway.
Life without thee no pleaſure can beſtow;
O might my ſuit thy tender pity move!
No muſe can paint the ills I undergo;
And nought can cure them but my Delia; love.
No bold ambitious views inſpire my breaſt:
And what is honour but an empty name?
While Delia ſcorns, I never can be bleſt,
Though ſounding heralds did my praiſe proclaim.
Know, lovely charmer, that our ancient ſire
Did languiſh, tho’ in Eden’s fragrant bow’rs;
Till the firſt nymph bade love his breaſt inſpire,
And by her preſence cheer’d the ling’ring hours.
But Adam’s love could never equal mine,
Nor did bright Eve ſuch radient beauty ſhare.
O come, my darling heart and hand reſign,
And ev’ry muſe ſhall hail the happy pair.
From Delia to Alonzo.
When Adam was in ſpacious Eden plac’d,
Where rural ſweets luxuriant did abound,
All that could charm the eye or pleaſe the taſte,
In this bleſt ſcene of happineſs was found.
O’er wide creation, he an empire ſway’d:
The creatures all with whom the world was ſtor’d,
His ſov’reign mandates with delight obey’d,
And own’d him as their univerſal lord.
What would he more, to render bleſs complete?
You ſay he lack’d the ſweets of ſocial life,
Until fair Eve, with charms divinely ſweet,
Became his friend, his partner, and his wife.
But think, fond youth, how tranſient was the bliſs.
Scarce had he felt the joys of mutual love,
Scarce had he once receiv’d th’ ambroſial kiſs,
When ah! his darling did his ruin prove!
Did ſhe, who was adorn’d with ev’ry grace,
Prove fatal to the father of mankind?
Who of her daughters, a degen’rate race,
Can boaſt more art the tranquil hours to bind?
To ſue for better, ſir, would be in vain:
None ever yet did mother Eve excel.
Be warn’d by Adam; ſhun the glitt’ring train,
Leſt ſome fond nymph your pleaſures all expel.
A ſingle life we find replete with joys.
The matrimonial chain I ever dread.
A ſtate of celibacy is my choice;
Therefore Alonzo never can ſucceed.
From Delia to Alonzo.
Who Had Sent Her a Slighting Epistle.
Sir, I your letter did peruſe;
So elegant the ſtyle you uſe,
Abaſh’d, confounded I did muſe
Struck with amaze;
Great wit and learning you diffuſe
In all your lays.
You’ve been upon Parnaſſus’ top,
More high than Alexander Pope;
And wild Arabia’s plains you grope
For Phenix rare,
That uſeful knowledge you may drop,
While dunces ſtare.
Your Pegaſus, ſtill on the wing,
More ſweet than Philomel you ſing;
And ſwift from diſtant climes you bring
Notes hard to read:
Does Phenix, ſir, from aſhes ſpring?
’Tis ſtrange indeed.
But more difficult ’tis to ſcan,
That dire, deceitful creature man;
Of all the work in Nature’s plan,
Sure none can be
So intricate to underſtan’
As myſtic he.
His breaſt is fill’d with mazy wiles;
His count’nance ſtor’d with fickle ſmiles:
His flatt’ring ſpeech too oft beguiles
And when he writes, his lofty ſtyle’s
Replete with ſenſe.
Such eloquence does merit praiſe;
Deep erudition ſwells your lays:N3 194 N3v 190
You ſeem the laureate of our days;
And all the nine,
Your mighty character to raiſe,
Do now combine.
’Tis pity, ſir, that ſuch as you
Should agriculture’s path purſue,
Or deſtin’d be to hold the plough
On the cold plain;
More fit that laurels deck’d the brow
Of ſuch a ſwain.
Yet Homer’s parts few did commend,
Till death his doleful days did end;
Then ſeven cities did contend
A right to claim;
Each vow’d from thence he did deſcend,
So great his fame.
Perhaps, ſir, in ſome future age,
Struck with the beauties of your page,
Old Scotia’s chieftains may engage
Your name to raiſe;195 N4r 191
More have they to excite their rage,
Than Homer’s lays.
But I muſt drop the pond’rous theme,
Leſt you my weak attempts ſhould blame;
So ſure your title is to fame,
Who runs may read;
Of ſuch your merit to proclaim
You have no need.
Know then, that love within my breaſt,
Has never yet been known to reſt;
Nor would I harbour such a gueſt,
To give me pain:
I wiſh you, ſir, ſo much diſtreſs’d,
Soon well again.
From Flavia to Carlos.
Dear ſir, accept this miſſive ſent
From one whoſe mind’s ſincerely bent,
On ever acting ſo with you,
As ſhall evince her friendſhip true.
But how ſhall Carlos really know,
That friendſhip in her breaſt doth glow?
A friend is more than empty name:
Few juſtly can the title claim.
Were Flavia born in ſtation high,
Her friendſhip ſoon you would deſcry:
Her op’lence quickly would reveal,
What pen’ry bids her now conceal.
Then Carlos would her favour boaſt,
Nor be ſo much by fortune croſs’d.
Thus Flavia talks of her eſteem,
As heroes conquer in a dream;
Or as a culprit, doom’d to die,
In dungeon where he’s forc’d to lie,
Might boaſt of what he could effect,
Were kings attentive to his beck.
You laugh, dear Sir, and pray what then,
Muſt Flavia call you beſt of men?
Muſt high encomiums grace her lays,
And all her notes be ſwell’d with praiſe?
Know Sir, when friendſhip does commence,
All flatt’ry muſt be ſpurn’d from thence:
No real friendſhip can exiſt,
In the diſembling flatt’rer’s breaſt.
What can poor Flavia then beſtow,
But wiſh you ſtill may better grow?
Your wit ſtill more and more refine,
And all the beauties of your min’,
With radient luſtre ever ſhine;
In virtue’s paths, ſtill on to tread,
Which to the fair Elyſium lead;
May every action juſtly claim
The Poet’s wiſh, that thing call’d Fame.
As through life’s winding vale you rove,
May ſtill your ſtars propitious prove,
And richeſt bleſſings on you ſhower;
May ſweet contentment grace your bower;
By love and fortune ever crown’d,
May honour all your wiſhes bound.
Nor acceſs find within your breaſt,
One thought your friend would wiſh ſuppreſt;
And may they ſoon at Tyburn ſwing,
Who would not ſign what here I ſing.
To Nell when at Moffat Well.
On the delightful banks of Mein,
The muſe laments in penſive ſtrain;
The nymphs aſſembl’d on the green,
Of Nelly’s abſence all complain.
Our rural ſwains no joys can find,
But ſtill in penſive ſilence mourn;
With heads upon the turf reclin’d
They ſigh, and wiſh your ſwift return.
Oft have they curs’d fair Moffat town,
With all the virtues of the Well;
The ſprightly Beau, and ruſtic clown,
Of Nelly’s charms delight to tell.
Dear maid, it is for you alone,
They ſpend whole days and nights in ſighs;
And will you diſregard their moan,
And all their plaintive notes deſpiſe?
’Tis Autumn now, the fertile field,
Rich Ceres decks with yellow grain;
With joy we would our ſickles wield,
If Nelly deign’d to grace the plain.
Come now and of our labours ſhare;
None better can that weapon ply;
O mitigate Philander’s care,
Whoſe toil ſeems leſs when you are nigh.
Once more, dear Nell, I’d wiſh to ſee
You cheerful join the rural throng;
Your preſence would enhance our glee,
And ſweetly animate my ſong.
A Young Lady’s Lamentation for the Loss of Her Sister by Marriage.
What tongue can half my woes expreſs?
What force of eloquence can tell?
The cauſes of my deep diſtreſs
Are ſuch as ever ſeem to ſwell.
My parents not ignoble were;
My father once a merchant fam’d;
But now in a ſuperior ſphere,
’Mongſt landed gentlemen he’s nam’d.
My mother, of no mean extract:
The famous Freyburgh gave her birth;
With wit and prudence ſtill ſhe’ll act;
None more accompliſhed on earth.
My brethren all for valour fam’d,
Their merit great, what pen can ſhow;
Their praiſe has been by fame proclaim’d,
While juſtly in eſteem they grow.
I had one only ſiſter dear;
Our parents’ joy and pride were we;
Our charms attractive did appear
To men of high and low degree:
Who often times, in ſoft addreſs,
Did ſtrive our favour to obtain,
While we of fortitude poſſeſ’d,
Refus’d their offers with diſdain.
They vow’d we would their ruin prove,
Perſiſting in our cruelty;
But we were wont to laugh at love,
And little Cupid’s darts defy.
We ever arm’d were cap-a-pee;
Indiff’rence was our favourite ſhield;
But by ſome fatal deſtiny,
My ſiſter languiſh’d in the field.
Depriv’d of all defenſive arms,
(I ſigh, my tears begin to flow)
And ſlain by a ſea captain’s charms,
She married was a month ago.
In an unlucky moment he,
From Plutus ſure had learn’d the art,
Made his empoiſon’d arrows flee,
Till one of them did pierce her heart.
She did not wiſh to find relief,
But an ignoble victim fell,
Which fill’d our parents’ hearts with grief;
Their ſorrows great what tongue can tell?
The balſam of advice was brought,
With drops of ſtrict authority;
Preſcriptions ſtill to ſhun ſhe fought,
Nor would the medicines apply.
With water of forgetfulneſs,
She oft was bid to bathe the wound:
The ſearch was vain, ſhe did proteſt
This water never could be found.
It griev’d us much thus to behold
Our counſels ſlighted with diſdain:
His feather’d darts were tipp’d with gold,
Which render’d every effort vain.
But conſcious that our parents dear
Could not behold the fatal blow,
To make the ſtroke ſeem leſs ſevere,
She at a diſtance met the foe.
Her peerleſs charms ſhe there reſign’d,
Compell’d by love’s ſupreme command;
A clown by travels much refin’d
Did eager claſp her beauteous hand.
I will lament a ſiſter loſt.
Ah! ladies hear my piteous moan,
Depriv’d of what I once could boaſt,
I now muſt keep the field alone.
What though I no aſſiſtance have,
I hope to act courag’ouſly,
The ſubtle foe ſtill to outbrave,
And man’s ſeducing arts defy.
The rich, the poor, the proud, the ſlave,
The fop, the clown, the low, the tall,
The gay, the giddy, or the grave,
I ſcornfully defy them all.
The Rival Swains.
While o ero’er the plains ſtern winter bore the ſway,
And Sol from Capricorn diffus’d his ray,
Nigh Bolton Gate, beneath a hawthorn ſhade,
Two rural ſwains ſad lamentations made:
Each for an abſent damſel ſeem’d to mourn,
While throbbing breaſts did ſigh for ſigh return.
Young D――y’s notes and T――’s fond praiſes prov’d,
That D――h T――r was the maid belov’d.
Says D――k, O had I theſe ſweet hours again,
I’ve ſpent with her; but ah! I wiſh in vain.207 O2r 203
The nymph is fled; to Mancheſter ſhe’s gone,
Nor heeds my ſighs, nor yet regards my moan:
Her cruel aunts did contribute their aid,
To baniſh from my ſight the lovely maid.
O little Cupid, chooſe two fatal darts,
And with a vengeance, ſend them to their hearts;
May they endure the agonizing pain
Of love, yet ever unbelov’d remain;
And, when far hence, by death they’re doom’d to go,
Then let their taſk be leading apes below.
Young D――h was the faireſt on the plain,
Admir’d and lov’d by ev’ry wond’ring ſwain.
Her charms exterior might a hero bind;
But ah! the beauty that adorns her mind,
To paint does far exceed my Muſe’s ſkill.
To you, dear T— I’ll now reſign the quill.
Says T—, On her the Graces ſeem to wait;
Her form, how fair! enchanting is her gait.O2 208 O2v 204
Her youthful charms, no tongue could e’er expreſs;
Nor does her abſence render them the leſs.
The ſoft impreſſion with me ſtill remains;
I’m captive, yet I glory in my chains.
With fond delight I retroſpect the day,
When we to E――n took our way,
With hearts elate, to view the Scottiſh fair,
Lov’d D――h ſweeten’d all the pleaſures there.
Bleſt with her company upon the road,
How charming ſeem’d each rugged path we trode?
Nor could the Scottiſh fair ſuch charms difplay;
My darling reign’d the empreſs of the day.
But ah! reflection animates my pain,
Such happy days I’ll ne’er behold again.
Alas! I languiſh now in deep deſpair;
O that I could forget my abſent fair!
While theſe two youths rehears’d their plaintive tale,
A third came ſtalking o’er a diſtant dale:209 O3r 205
R――n his name, whoſe anxious looks did ſhow,
His beating boſom much oppreſs’d with wo.
Of J――y’s charms, he in ſoft concert ſung;
J――y the gay, the beauteous, and the young:
She who of late, with parſon F――r ſtay’d,
In the low ſtation of a dairy-maid.
Yet there it was ſhe gain’d young R――n’s heart,
And in her abſence nought can eaſe his ſmart.
O hapleſs lads! can nought allay your pain,
Till theſe two charming maids return again?
Is there none elſe can eaſe your tortur’d mind?
None elſe ſo fair, ſo virtu’ous and ſo kind?
So may you think, and thus in ſighs lament,
Till Hymen’s fetters make you all repent.
Better bewail an abſent love for life,
Than be tormented by a fractious wife.
To A Lady Who Sent the Author Some Paper With a Reading of Sillar’s Poems.
Dear madam, with joy I read over your letter;
Your kindneſs ſtill tends to confirm me your debtor;
But can’t think of payment, the ſum is ſo large,
Tho’ farthings for guineas could buy my diſcharge.
But, madam, the Muſes are fled far away,
They deem it diſgrace with a milkmaid to ſtay.211 O4r 207 Let them go if they will, I would scorn to pursue, And can, without sighing, subscribe an adieu. Their trifling mock visits, to many so dear, Is the only disaster on earth I now fear. Sure Sillar much better had banish’d them thence, Than wrote in despite of good manners and sense: With two or three more, whose pretensions to fame Are slight as the bubble that bursts on the stream. And lest with such dunces as these I be number’d, The task I will drop, nor with verse be incumber’d; Tho’ pen, wit and paper, are by me in store, O madam excuse, for I ne’er shall write more.
Finis.From a perfect copy in the possession of W. C. Davis. 1909-02Feb. 1909. G. F. B.