His Grace who fmarts, may bellow if he please,
But must I bellow too, who fit at ease?
By custom fafe, the poet's numbers flow,
Free as the light and air fome years ago.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours, and excife our brains.
Burthens like thefe vile earthly buildings bear,
No tribute's laid on caftles in the air.

Let then the flames of war deftructive reign,
And England's terrors awe imperious Spain;
Let ev'ry venal clan and neutral tribe
Learn to receive conditions, not prescribe;
Let each new year call loud for new fupplies,
And tax on tax with double burthens rife:
Exempt we fit, by no rude cares oppreft,
And, having little, are with little bleft.
All real ills in dark oblivion lie,

And joys, by fancy form'd, their place fupply,
Night's laughing hours unheeded slip away,
Nor one dull thought foretells th' approach of Day.
Thus have we liv'd,and whilst the fates afford
Plain plenty to fupply the frugal board,
Whilft Mirth with Decency his lovely bride,
And Wine's gay God, with Temp'rance by his fide,
Their welcome vifit pay; whilft Health attends
The narrow circle of our chofen friends,
Whilft frank Good-Humour confecrates the treat,
And Woman makes fociety complete,
Thus will we live, tho' in our teeth are hurl'd
Thofe hackney ftrumpets, Prudence and the World.
Prudence, of old a facred term, imply'd
Virtue, with godlike Wifdom for her guide,
But now in general ufe is known to mean
The ftalking-horse of vice, and folly's screen.
The fenfe perverted we retain the name,
Hypocrify and Prudence are the fame.

A Tutor once, more read in men than books,
A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks,
Demurely fly, with high preferment blest,
His fav'rite pupil in these words addreffed :
Would't thou, my fon, be wife and virtuous deem'd,
By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?

Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call;
Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all.
Keep up appearances, there lies the test,
The world will give thee credit for the reft.
Outward be fair, however foul within ;
Sin if thou wilt, but then in fecret fin.
This maxim's into common favour grown,
Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.
Virtue indeed may barefac'd take the field;
But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.
Should raging paffions drive thee to a whore,
Let Prudence lead thee to a poftern door;
Stay out all night, but take efpecial care
That Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.
As one with watching and with study faint,
Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a faint.

With joy the youth this useful lesson heard,
And in his mem❜ry ftor'd each precious word,
Successfully purfu'd the plan, and now,

"Room for my Lord,-Virtue stand by and bow."
And is this all-is this the worldings art,
To mask, but not mend a vicious heart?
Shall lukewarm caution and demeanor grave
For wife and good stamp ev'ry fupple knave?
Shall wretches whom no real virtue warms,
Gild fair their names and states with empty forms,

Whilft Virtue feeks in vain the wish'd-for prize,
Because, difdaining ill, fhe hates disguise;
Because the frankly pours forth all her store,
Seems what he is, and fcorns to pass for more?
Well-be it fo-let vile diffemblers hold
Unenvy'd pow'r, and boast their dear-bought gold,
Me neither pow'r fhall tempt, nor thirst of pelf,
To flatter others or deny myself;

Might the whole world be plac'd within my span,
I would not be that Thing, that Prudent Man.
What, cries Sir Pliant, would you then oppofe
Yourfelf, alone, against an host of foes?
Let not conceit, and peevish luft to rail,
Above all fenfe of intereft prevail.
Throw off for fhame this petulance of wit,
Be wife, be modeft, and for once submit :
Too hard the task 'against multitudes to fight,
You must be wrong, the World is in the right.
What is this World? A term which men have got
To fignify, not one in ten knows what ;
A term, which with no more precifion paffes
To point out herds of men than herds of affes;
In common ufe no more it means, we find,
Than many fools in fame opinions join'd.

Can numbers then change Nature's ftated laws?
Can numbers make the worse the better caufe?
Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue still,
Tho' thousands rail at good and practice ill.
Wouldft thou defend the Gaul's deftructive rage
Because vaft nations on his part engage ?
Tho' to fupport the rebel Cæfar's caufe
Tumultuous legions arm against the laws,
Tho' Scandal would our patriot's name impeach,
And rails at virtues which the cannot reach,
What honeft man but would with joy fubmit
To bleed with Cato, and retire with PITT?
Stedfaft and true to Virtue's facred laws,
Unmov'd by vulgar cenfure or applause,
Let the World talk, my friend; that World we
know

Which calls us guilty, cannot make us fo.
Unaw'd by numbers, follo Nature's plan,
Affert the rights, or quit the name of Man.
Confider well, weigh ftrictly right and wrong;
Refolve not quick, but once refolv'd be ftrong.
In fpite of dullness, and in spite of wit,
If to thyfelf thou canft thyself acquit,
Rather ftand up affur'd with confcious pride
Alone, than err with millions on thy fide.

His heart like dripping, melts, and new defire
Within him ftirs, each time the ftirs the fire;
Trembling and blufhing he the fair one views,
And fain would fpeak, but can't-without a Muse.
So to the facred mount he takes his way,
Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,
His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills proclaims,
In fimpleft notes, and all unpolish'd strains,
The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of fwains.
Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,
In ruftic weeds-a cook-maid now no more-
Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies,

Green mofs her couch; her canopy the skies.
From aromatic fhrubs the roguish gale

Steals young perfumes, and wafts them thro' the vale.
The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in ruftic lays,
Faft by her fide his am'rous defcant plays.

Herds lowe, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens fcream,
And the full chorus dies a-down the stream.
The streams, with mufic freighted, as they pafs,
Prefent the fir Lardella with a glafs,
And Zephyr, to compleat the love-fick plan,
Waves his light wings, and ferves her for a fan.
But, when maturer Judgment takes the lead,
Thefe childish toys on Reason's altar bleed;
Form'd after fome great man, whofe name breeds awe,
Whofe ev'ry fentence Fashion makes a law,
Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,
And founds his merit on our fervile fears;
Then we difcard the workings of the heart,
And Nature's banish'd by mechanic Art;
Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;
Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown.
Then Oftentation marches to our aid,

And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade ;
Beneath their care behold the work refine,
Pointed each sentence, polifh'd ev'ry line:
Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear
The robes of Ancients with a Modern air,
Nonfenfe with claffic ornaments is grac'd,
And paffes current with the ftamp of Tafte.

Then the rude Theocrite is ranfack'd o'er,
And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore ;
Sicilian Mufes on our mountains roam,
Eafy and free as if they were at home :
Nymphs, Naiads, Nereids, Dryads, Satyrs, Fauns,
Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;
Flow'rs, which once flourish'd fair in Greece and
Rome,

More fair revive in Englands meads to bloom;
Skies without cloud exotic funs adorn;
And rofes blush, but blush without a thorn;
Landscapes unknown to dowdy Nature, rife,
And new creations ftrike our wond'ring eyes.

For bards like thefe, who neither fing nor fay,
Grave without thought, and without feeling gay,
Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,
Attun'd to pleasure, and attun'd to woe,
Who, if plain Common Senfe her vifit pays,
And mars one couplet in their happy lays,
As at fome ghost affrighted, start and stare,
And ask the meaning of her coming there;
For bards like these a wreath fhall Mafon bring,
Lin'd with the fofteft down of Folly's wing;
In Love's Pagoda fhall they ever doze,
And Gifbal kindly rock them to repofe ;

My lord to letters as to faith moft true-
At once their patron and example too---
Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,
Sigh with fad winds, and weep with weeping ftreams,
Curious in grief, (for real grief, we know,

Is curious to drefs up the tale of woe)

From the green umbrage of fome Druid's feat,
Shall his own works in his own way repeat.

Me whom no Mufe of heav'nly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires ;
Who boaft no merit but mere knack of rime,
Short gleams of sense, and fatire out of time,
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads
By prattling ftreams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads ;
Who often, but without fuccefs, have pray'd
For apt Alliteration's artful aid ;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,
Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill ;
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poefy, and ambling wit,

Tafte with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, Nature, art my goddefs-to thy law
Myfelf I dedicate.-Hence flavish awe
Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules,
Impos'd at first, and fince obferv'd by fools.
Hence thofe vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,
And bring the fober matron forth to view,
With all that artificial tawdry glare,

Which Virtue fcorns, and none but ftrumpets wear.
Sick of those pomps, thofe vanities that wafte
Of toil, which critics now mistake for tafte,
Of falfe refinements fick, and labour'd cafe,
Which Art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please,
By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) fubdu'd,
However plain her drefs, and 'haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier course I steer,
Climes where the goddefs reigns throughout the
year.

Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,
She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan.

To that rare foil, where virtues cluft'ring grow,
What mighty bleffings doth not England owe?
What waggon-loads of courage, wealth and fenfe,
Doth each revolving day import from thence ?
To us the gives, difinterested friend,
Faith without fraud, and Stuarts without end.
When we profperity's rich trappings wear,
Come not her gen'rous fons and take a fhare?
And if, by fome difaftrous turn of fate,
Change fhould enfue, and ruin feize the state,
Shall we not find fafe in that hallow'd ground,
Such refuge as the Holy Martyr found?

Nor lefs our debt in Science, tho' deny'd
By the weak flaves of prejudice and pride.
Thence came the Ramfays, names of worthy note,
Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;
Thence, Home, difbanded from the fons of pray'r
For loving plays, tho' no dull Dean was there;
Thence iffued forth, at great Macpherson's call,
That old, new, epic paftoral, Fingal ;
Thence Malloch, friend alike of Church and State,
Of Chrift and Liberty, by grateful Fate
Rais'd to rewards which, in a pious reign,
All darling infidels fhould seek in vain ;
Thence fimple bards, by fimple prudence taught,
To this quife town by fimple patrons brought,

Now be the Mufe difrob'd of all her pride,
Be all the glare of verfe by Truth fupplied,
And if plain Nature pours a fimple strain,
Which Bute may praife, and Offian not disdain,
Offian, fublimeft, fimpleft bard of all,
Whom English infidels Macpherson call,
Then round my head shall honour's enfigns wave,
And penfions mark me for a willing flave.

Two boys, whofe birth beyond all question fprings From great and glorious, tho' forgotten, kings, Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred On the fame bleak and barren mountain's head, By niggard Nature doom'd on the fame rocks To fpin out life, and starve themselves and flocks, Fresh as the morning, which, enrob'd in mist, The mountain's top with ufual dulnefs kifs'd, Jockey and Sawney to their labours rofe; Soon clad I ween, where Nature needs no cloaths, Where, from their youth enur'd to winter-fkies, Drefs and her vain refinements they defpife.

Jockey, whofe manly high-bon'd cheeks to crown With freckles fpotted flam'd the golden down, With mikle art could on the bagpipes play, E'en from the rifing to the setting day; Sawney as long without remorfe could bawl Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal. Oft at his ftrains, all natural tho' rude, The Highland lafs forgot her want of food, And, whilft fhe fcratch'd her lover into rest, Sunk pleas'd, tho' hungry, on her Sawney's breaft.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in ruffet, fcorn'd the lively green. The plague of locufts they fecure defy, For in three hours a grafhopper muft die. No living thing, whate'er its food, feafts there, But the Cameleon, who can feast on air. No birds, except as birds of paffage, flew, No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. No ftreams as amber fmooth, as amber clear, Were feen to glide, or heard to warble here. Rebellion's fpring, which through the country ran, Furnish'd with bitter draughts, the steady clan. No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white rofe, Which on the 10th of June by inftinct blows, By inftinct blows at morn, and, when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.

One, and but one poor folitary cave, Too fparing of her favours, Nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beaft fupplied. Their fhares without entangling briers spread, And thiftles, arm'd against the invader's head. Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppofe, Thiftles now held more precious than the rofe. All creatures which, on Nature's earliest plan, Were form'd to loath, and to be loath'd by man, Which ow'd their birth to naftiness and spite, Deadly to touch, and hateful to the fight, Creatures, which when admitted in the ark, Their Saviour thunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poison's trail, hère crawl'd the bloated toad'; There webs were spread of more than common fize, And half-ftarv'd fpiders prey'd on half-ftarv'd flies; In queft of food, efts ftrove in vain to crawl; Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, fmear'd the flimy wall;

The cave around with hiffing ferpents rung
On the damp roof unhealthy vapours hung
And FAMINE, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the fullen fky was overcaft,
And fummer fhrunk beneath a wint'ry blaft,
A native blaft, which, arm'd with hail and sain,
Beat unrelenting on the naked fwain,

The boys for fhelter made; behind the sheep
Of which thofe shepherds every day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude,
On Nature feem'd to call, and bleat for food.

Ah, Jockey, ill advises thou, I wis,
To think of fongs at fuch a time as this.
Sooner fhall herbage crown these barren rocks,
Sooner thall fleeces cloath these ragged flocks,
Sooner fhall want feize fhepherds of the fouth,
And we forget to live from hand to mouth,
Than Sawney, out of feafon, fhall impart
The fongs of gladness with an aching heart.
JOCKEY.

Still have I known thee for a filly fwain ;
Of things paft help, what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;
No fky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is forrow's falve; what can't be cur'd,
So Donald right arceds, must be endur'd.

JOCKEY.

Full forely may we all lament that day;
For all were lofers in the deadly fray.
Five brothers had 1, on the Scottish plains,
Well dost thou know were none more hopeful fwains;
Five brothers there I loft, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died;
Ah! filly fwains, to follow war's alarms!
Ah! what hath fhepherd's life to do with arms!
SAWNEY.

Mention it not-There faw I ftrangers clad
In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid,
Saw the Ferrara too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the aukward victor's fide.
There fell our choicett youth, and from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay;

Blefs'd those which fell! curs'd thofe which still furvive,

To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five.

turf,

With boils embofs'd, and overgrown with fcurf,
Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well,
Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,
Pale FAMINE rear'd the head: her eager eyes,
Where hunger e'en to madnefs feem'd to rife,
Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,
Strain'd to get loofe, and from their orbs to start ;
Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-funk cell,
Where wretchedness and horror lov'd to dwell;
With double rows of useless sceth fupplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pin'd,
She op'd, and curfing swallow'd nought but wind;
All fhrivell'd was her fkin, and here and there,
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:
Such filthy fight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid the threw.
Ceafe, cried the goddefs, ceafe, defpairing fwains,
And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!

Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deigned to smile;
Like Nature's baftards, reaping for our share
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us flaves;
Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly fought;
Whom still with unflack'd heat we view, and ftill,
The pow'r of mifchief loft, retain the will;
Confider'd as the refufe of mankind,

A mafs till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal Nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to ftamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in hafte, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in Creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold

Would fell their God, as once their King they fold;
Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,
Thefe vile injurious taunts, and bear them ftill,
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promife of a better land:

Defcend, and fearless travel thro' the deep;
The fail of Commerce for our ufe unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world;
For us, fublimer heights fhall Science reach,
For us, their Statesmen plot, their Churchmen
preach;

Their nobleft limbs of counsel we'll disjoint,
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint;
Devouring War, imprison'd in the north,
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,
And, when, his chariot wheels with thunder hung
Fell Difcord braying with her brazen tongue,
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,
And Defolation ftalking in the rear.
Revenge, by Juftice guided, in his train,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey
And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give way.
Think not, my fons, that this so bless'd estate
Stands at a distance on the roll of fate;
Already big with hopes of future sway,
E'en from this cave I fcent my deftin'd prey.
Think not, that this dominion o'er a race,
Whofe former deeds fhall Time's laft annals grace,
In the rough face of peril must be fought,
And with the lives of thousands dearly bought;
No-fool'd by cunning, by that happy art
Which laugh's to fcorn the blundering hero's heart.
Into the fpare fhall our kind neighbours fall
With open eyes, and fondly give us all.

When Rome, to prop her finking empire, bere
Their choiceft levies to a foreign fhore,
What if we feiz'd, like a destroying flood,
Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood.
Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage,
And scorning mercy, fpar'd nor fex nor age;
When, for our int'reft too mighty grown,
Monarchs of warlike bent poffefs'd the throne,
What if we ftrove divifions to foment,
And fpread the flames of civil difcontent,
Affifted thofe 'gainft their king made head,
And gave the traitors refuge when they fled;
When restless Glory bad her fons advance,
And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France;