Great Nature spoke: observant man obey'd-Pope. Let other heroes boast their scars, The marks of sturtand strife: And other poets sing of wars, The plagues of human life: Shame fa'the fun, wi'sword and gun To slapmankind like lumber! I sing his name, and nobler fame, Whamultiplies our number. Great Nature spoke, with airbenign, "Go on,
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To
Rusticity's ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; But when the heart is nobly warm, The good excuse will find. Propriety's cold, cautious rules Warm fervour may o'erlook: Butspare poor sensibility Th' ungentle, harsh rebuke.
To you, sir, this summons I've sent, Pray, whip tillthe pownieis freathing; But if you demand what I want, I honestly answer you-naething. Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, For idly just living and breathing, While people of every degree Are busy employed about-naething. Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, And grumble his hurdiestheir claithing, He'll
An honest man's the noblest work of God-Pope. Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2again grown weel, To preach an' read? "Na' waurthan a'! cries ilka chiel, "Tam Samson's dead!" Kilmarnock langmay grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sab, an' greether lane, An' cleedher bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a rippto thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaenlike ony staggie, Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet's pray'rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Lowi' the dust, And scriechinhout prosaic
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is