The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me), On every hand it will allow'd be, He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abused;

And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Even that, he doesna mind it lang :
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He doesna fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no through terror of damnation ;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain !
Vain is his hope whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice !

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;

Steal through a winnock frae a whore,
But point the rake that taks the door;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane,
Ply every art o' legal thieving;

No matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang, wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own: I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiverA steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'!
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror !
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heaven commission gies him;
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deepening tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans !

Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my Dedication;
But when divinity comes 'cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,

When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye needna tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronise them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever
I had amaist said, ever pray;
But that's a word I needna say:
For prayin' I hae little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-sweer, and wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer
That kens or hears about you, sir-

"May ne'er Misfortune's growling bark Howl through the dwelling o' the Clerk May ne'er his generous, honest heart, For that same generous spirit smart! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beat his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen! Five bonny lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout and able, To serve their king and country weel By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days; Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion Wi' complimentary effusion:

But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest wi' Fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Powers above prevent!)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances

By sad mistakes and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,

Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of Fortune's strife,
I, through the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand—my friend and brother!

TO A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH.

Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace;

Though, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt and sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations

;

Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it,

The very tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and grey as ony grozet :

Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum !

I wadna been surprised to spy
You on an auld wife's flannen toy :
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie!

How daur ye do't?
P-p