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But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory
At once may illustrate and honour my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,
For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

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Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks,
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its
neighbours :

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Mankind are his show-box- a friend, would you know him? Pull the string, Ruling Passion: the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,

One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him! For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,

Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe,
And think Human-nature they truly describe;

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Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind;

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,

In the make of the wonderful creature call'd Man ;
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

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But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse :
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels,
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels !
My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet,
Your courage much more than your prudence you show it:

In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle,
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle;
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em,
He'd up the back-stairs, and, by God, he would steal 'em.
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em,
It is not, outdo him-the task is, out-thieve him.

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NEW-YEAR DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

THIS day Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine
To wheel the equal, dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow—
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing?
This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver?
'Another year has gone for ever.'
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may, a few years must,
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!

ΙΟ

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30

Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytler.

The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies;
That on this frail, uncertain state
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends;
Let us th' important Now employ,
And live as those that never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse;
A sight pale Envy to convulse)—

Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

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POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE POET'S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

IO

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join.
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry;

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of this epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us the Hanover stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But, Royalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?

The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night;

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET,

OF MONBODDO.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!

In thee high Heaven above was truest shown,
And by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.

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30

On Destruction of Woods near Drumlanrig.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,

Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!

Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens ;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens,

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

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Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,—
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,

And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,

Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon agèd tree,
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

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VERSES

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd,

I sat me down upon a craig,

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the genius of the stream.

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