Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, The hap-
The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug :
less poet
Kings bear the civil, priests the sacred blade,
Soldiers and hangmen murder by their trade;
Even silly women have defensive arts,
Their eyes, their tongues and nameless other
parts.
But O thou cruel stepmother and hard,
To that poor fenceless, naked thing, a Bard!
A thing unteachable in worldly skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still :
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun,
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun:
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
His dart satyric, his unheeded sting:
And idle fancy's pinions, all his wing:
The silly sheep that wanders wild astray,
Not more unfriended, and not more a prey;
Vampyre-booksellers drain him to the heart,
And butcher-critics cut him up by art.
Critics! appall'd I venture on the name,
Those bandits that infest the paths of fame,
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes,
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose :
His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung,
By blockhead's daring into madness stung,
Torn, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounces on through life,
Extinct each ray that once his bosom fired,
Till fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd,
Low-sunk in feeble, unprotected age,
Dead even resentment for his inspir'd page,
He feels no more the ruthless critics' rage.
News and So by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd, Reviews To half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast, By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
RHYMING REPLY TO A NOTE
FROM CAPTAIN RIDDELL
DEAR SIR, at ony time or tide,
I'd rather sit wi' you than ride,
Though 'twere wi' royal Geordie;
And trowth, your kindness, soon and late,
Aft gars me to mysel' look blate-
The Lord in Heav'n reward ye!
IMPROMPTU LINES TO CAPTAIN
RIDDELL
ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER
YOUR News and Review, sir,
I've read through and through, sir,
With little admiring or blaming;
The Papers are barren
Of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes worth the naming.
Our friends, the Reviewers,
Those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, sir;
But of meet or unmeet,
In a fabric complete,
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, sir;
My goose-quill too rude is
To tell all your goodness
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;
Would to God I had one
Like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, sir, should know it!
LINES TO JOHN M.MURDO, ESQ.
OF DRUMLANRIG
SENT WITH SOME OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS
O COULD I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send;
Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.
But golden sands did never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold could never buy-
An honest bard's esteem.
A NEW PSALM FOR THE CHAPEL
OF KILMARNOCK
ON THE THANKSGIVING-DAY FOR HIS MAJESTY'S
O SING a new song to the Lord;
Make, all and every one,
A joyful noise, even for the king
His restoration.
The sons of Belial in the land
Did set their heads together;
Come, let us sweep them off, said they,
Like an o'erflowing river.
They set their heads together, I say,
They set their heads together;
On right, and left, and every hand,
We saw none to deliver.
Thou madest strong two chosen ones
To quell the Wicked's pride;
That Young Man, great in Issachar,
The burden-bearing tribe.
And him, among the Princes, chief
In our Jerusalem,
The judge that's mighty in thy law,
The man that fears thy name.
Yet they, even they, with all their strength,
Began to faint and fail:
Even as two howling, rav'ning wolves
To dogs do turn their tail.
Th' ungodly o'er the just prevail'd,
For so thou hadst appointed;
That thou might'st greater glory give
Unto thine own anointed.
And now thou hast restored our State,
Pity our Kirk also
For she by tribulations
Consume that high-place, Patronage,
From off thy holy hill;
And in thy fury burn the book—
Even of that man M'Gill.
Now hear our prayer, accept our song,
And fight thy chosen's battle:
We seek but little, Lord, from thee,
Thou kens we get as little.
A GRACE BEFORE DINNER,
EXTEMPORE
O THOU who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want.!
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide,
For all Thy goodness lent :
And, if it please Thee, heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent ;
But, whether granted or denied,
Lord, bless us with content.
A GRACE AFTER DINNER,
EXTEMPORE
O THOU, in whom we live and move-
Who made the sea and shore ;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us, with such store,
The friend we trust, the fair we love—
And we desire no more. Amen!
SONNET ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR
ADDRESSED TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY
I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
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