A

DEDICATION.

ΤΟ

G***** H*******, Esq.

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication,
To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' fprung o' great an' noble bluid;

Because

Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulfome, finfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I ftop short,

For fear your modefty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefou; For me! fae 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 fhall fay, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
Its juft fic Poet, an' fic Patron.

The Poet, fome guid Angel help him, Or elfe, I fear fome ill ane skelp him! He may do weel for a' he's done yet,

But only he's no juft begun yet.

The

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 juft-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa fee 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 no refus't,
Till aft his guidnefs is abus'd;

And rafcals 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, finfu', corrupt Nature:

Ye'll

Ye'll get the best o' moral works,

'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,

Wha never heard of Orth-d-xy.

That's he's the poor man's friend in need,
The Gentleman in word and deed,

It's no thro' terror of D-mn-t--n;

It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou haft slain !
Vain is his hope, whofe ftay and truft is
In moral Mercy, Truth, and Juftice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abufe a brother to his back;

Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re,
But point the Rake that taks the door;
Be to the Poor like onie whunftane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane:

Ply

Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;

No matter, ftick to found believing.

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile

graces,

Wi' weel-fpread looves, an' lahg, wry faces;
Grunt up a folemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae Deceiver,
A fteady, sturdy, ftaunch Believer.

O ye wha leave the fprings of C-lv-n;
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin!
Ye fons of Herefy and Error,

Ye'll fome day fqueel in quaking terror!

When Vengeance draws the fword in wrath,

And in the fire throws the fheath;

When Ruin, with his fweeping befom,

Juft frets till Heav'n commiffion gies him:

While