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 the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its
neighbours.

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;

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 that 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.

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.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true,

Though heretics may laugh;

For instance; there's yoursel just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

And should some patron be so kind
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt ua, sir, but then we'll find
Ye're still as great a stirk.

But if the lover's raptured hour
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, every heavenly power,

You e'er should be a stot!

Though, when some kind connubial dear

Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head"Here lies a famous bullock !"

TO CLARINDA.

ON THE POET'S LEAVING EDINBURGH.

CL

LARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measured time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie?
Deprived of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy!

We part-but, by these precions drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

TO CLARINDA.

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES.

AIR empress of the poet's soul,

FA

And queen of poetesses;

Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses.

And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;

And pledge me in the generous toast-
"The whole of humankind!"

"To those who love us!"-second fill ;
But not to those whom we love;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third-" To thee and me, love!"

Long may we live ! long may we love!
And long may we be happy!

And may we never want a glass
Well charged with generous nappy!

TO CLARINDA.

EFORE I saw Clarinda's face,

B My heart was blithe and gay,

Free as the wind, or feather'd race
That hop from spray to spray.

But now dejected I appear,
Clarinda proves unkind;
I, sighing, drop the silent tear,
But no relief can find.

Ah, though my looks betray,
I envy your success;

Yet love to friendship shall give way,
I cannot wish it less.

In plaintive notes my tale rehearses
When I the fair have found;
On every tree appear my verses
That to her praise resound.

But she, ungrateful, shuns my sight,
My faithful love disdains,

My vows and tears her scorn excite-
Another happy reigns.

"I

TO CLARINDA.

BURN, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn, By driving winds, the crackling flames are borne!" Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night; Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. In vain the laws their feeble force oppose;

Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd foes:
In vain Religion meets my shrinking eye;

I dare not combat-but I turn and fly:
Conscience in vain upbraids the unhallow'd fire;
Love grasps its scorpions-stifled they expire;