EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha [fou; Maun please the great folk for a wameFor me! sae laigh I needna bow,

For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him, Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him! He may do weel for a' he's done yet, But only-he's no just begun yet.

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me), On ev'ry 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 not refus't,
Till aft his guidness is abus'd;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na 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 thro' terror of damnation;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whase 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 thro' the winnock frae a whore, But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter-stick to sound believing,

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half

mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry faces;

Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of 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 Heav'n commission gies
him :

While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning 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 need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall everI had amaist said, ever pray : But that's a word I need na say: For prayin I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;

But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, Sir.

'May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May Kennedy's far-honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen : Five bonie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' 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 with Fortune's smiles and favours,

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow'rs 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 Heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my Master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand-my Friend and
Brother!

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade his labours plies; There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There Learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim: And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine!

There watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! Wild beats my heart, to trace your steps, Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold-following where your fathers led! Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?'

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Ferguson's, the bauld an' slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, an' folks that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me;
Tho' I maun own, as monie still
As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,
I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me,