Youse hear-As I was gaun down't looan I spy'd,
A scoore or mair o' Crows by t' gutter side,
All se thrang, hoppin in, an' hoppin out,
I wonder'd what i' th' warld they were about.
I leuks, and then I sees an awd yode laid,
Gaspin' an' pantin' there, an' ommost dead;
An' as they pick'd it's een, an' pick'd ageean,
It just cud lift it's leg, and give a greean,
But when I fand awi Daisy was their prey,
I wav'd my hat, an' shoo'd 'em all away.
Poor Dais !-ye maund, she's now woorn fairly out,
She's lang been quite hard sett te trail about.
But yonder, Goorgy, loo' ye whoer she's laid,
An' twea'r three Nanpies chatt'rin' owre her
head.
Aye marry! this I nivver wish'd te see,
She's been se good-se true a frynd to me,-
An' is thou cum te this, my poor awd meer?
Thou's been a trusty servant monny a year,
An' better treatment thou's desarv'd fra me,
Than, thus neglected in a dike te dee.-
Monny a days-wark, we ha' wrought together,
An' bidden monny a blast o' wind and weather;
Monny a lang dree maule, owre moss, an' moor,
An' monny a hill, an' deeal we've travell'd owre;
Bud now-waes me!-thou'll niver trot ne mair,
Te nowther kirk, nor market, spoort, not fair;
And now, fort' future, thoff I's awd and leam,
I mun be foorc'd te walk, or stay at heam.-
Ne mair, thou'l bring me cooals fra' Brakay bron,
Or sticks fra' t'wood, or turves fra' heaf how con.
My poor awd Dais! afoor I dig thy greeave,
Thy weel-worn shoon I will for keep-seekes seeave;
Thy hide, poor lass! I'll hev it taun'd wi' care,
"Twill mak' a cover to my awd airm chair;
An' pairt, an appron for my wife te weear,
When cardin' woul, or weshin' t' parlour fleer.
Deep i't 'cawd yearth I will thy carcass please,
'At thy poor beeans may lig, and rist i' peeace;
Deep i't' cawd yearth, 'at dogs may'nt scrat'
thee out,
And rave thy flesh, an' trail thy beeans about.
Thou's been se faithfull for se long to me,
Thou sannut at thy death neglected be.
Seyldom a Christian 'at yan now can fynd,
Wad be mair trusty, or mair true a frynd.
The Poems of Joseph Warton should be collected, for the Wartons have deserved well of literature; he published, 1. The Enthusiast, or Love of Nature, 1745; which, with Fashion and Satire, is preserved in Dodsley's Collection. 2. Odes on various Subjects, 1746.
● GODDESS, on whose steps attend
Pleasure, and laughter-loving health,
White mantled Peace with olive-wand,
Young Joy, and diamond-scepter'd Wealth,
Blithe Plenty, with her loaded horn,
With Science bright-eyed as the morn,
In Britain, which for ages past
Has been thy choicest darling care,
Who madest her wise, and strong, and fair,
May thy best blessings ever last.
For thee, the pining prisoner mourns,
Deprived of food, of mirth, of light;
For thee pale slaves to galleys chain'd,
That ply tough oars from morn to night;
Thee the proud Sultan's beauteous train,
By eunuchs guarded, weep in vain,
Tearing the roses from their locks;
And Guinea's captive kings lament,
By Christian lords to labour sent,
Whipt like the dull, unfeeling ox.
Inspired by thee, deaf to fond Nature's cries, Stern Brutus, when Rome's genius loudly spoke, Gave her the matchless filial sacrifice,
Nor turn'd, nor trembled at the deathful stroke ! And he of later age, but equal fame,
Dared stab the tyrant, though he loved the friend. How burnt the *Spartan with warm patriot flame, In thy great cause his valorous life to end!
How burst Gustavus from the Swedish mine!
Like light from chaos dark, eternally to shine.
When heaven to all thy joys bestows,
And graves upon our hearts-be free/
Shall coward man those joys resign,
And dare reverse this great decree ?
Submit him to some idol-king,
Some selfish, passion-guided thing,
Abhorring man, by man abhorr'd,
Around whose throne stands trembling doubt,
Whose jealous eyes still roll about,
And murder with his reeking sword?
Where trampling Tyranny with Fate
And black Revenge gigantick goes:
Hark, how the dying infants shriek!
How hopeless age is sunk in woes!
Fly, mortals, from that fated land,
Though birds in shades of Cassia sing,
Harvests and fruits spontaneous rise,
No storms disturb the smiling skies,
And each soft breeze rich odours bring.
Britannia, watch!-remember peerless Rome, Her high-tower'd head dash'd meanly to the ground;
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