Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, But when divinity comes cross me, So, Sir, you 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 patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever I 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 K******'s far-honoured name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, • Till H*******s, at least a dizen, May health and peace, with mutual rays, • 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, I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 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! If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, Sir, your hand,-my friend and brother! ΤΟ A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie, I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner, How dare ye set your fit upon her, Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner, 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 dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now, haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right Till ye've got on it, The vera tapmost, tow'ring height O' Miss's bonnet. My sooth; right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! |