Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks,

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; 40
Though there his heresies in church and state

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?

Whose spleen? e'en worse than Burns's venom when
He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,

And pours his vengeance in the burning line!
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine
The idiot strum of vanity bemused,
And even th' abuse of poesy abused?
Who call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?
A workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose!
In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,
And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure?

Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,

And make a vast monopoly of hell?

Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee worse;
The vices also, must they club their curse?
Or must no tiny sin to others fall,

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls?
Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit?
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?

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Our force united on thy foes we'll turn,

And dare the war with all of woman born:

For who can write and speak as thou and I?

My periods that decyphering defy,

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply.

EPISTLE TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve :

And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret:
Syne wha wad starve?

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her,
Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker,

"Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's off like fire.

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Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flee, aft bizzes by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murd'ring wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen :

The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!

Amen! amen!

WINTER.

THE wintry wast extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw :

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae:

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

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'The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'
The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want (Oh! do thou grant

This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown Almighty Cause

Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formèd me

With passions wild and strong;

And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

ΙΟ

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Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

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STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between ;
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms!
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,

And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!'
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ;
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowèd line;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine !

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