Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ́;.
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the foreft, and one fpurns the ground:
Thou giv'ft the afs his hide, the fnail his fhell,
Th' envenomed wafp, victorious, guards his cell.
Thy minions, kings defend, controul, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.-
Foxes and ftatefmen, fubtile wiles enfure;
The cit and polecat ftink, and are fecure.
Toads with their poifon, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes are fnug.
Even filly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded fpear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter ftep-mother and hard,
To thy poor fencelefs, naked child-the bard!
A thing unteachable in world's fkill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated fight to fhun;
No horns, but thofe by lucklefs Hymen worn,
And thofe, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trufty cur,
Clad in rich Dulnefs' comfortable fur.
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every fide:
Vampyre bookfellers drain him to the heart,
And fcorpion Critics curelefs venom dart.

.

Critics

appalled, I venture on the name,
Thofe cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody diffectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung
By blockheads daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By mifcreants torn, who ne'er one sprig muft wear :
Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal ftrife,
The hapless poet flounders on thro' life.

Till fled each hope that once his bofom fired,
And fled each Mufe that glorious once infpired,
Low funk in fqualid, unprotected age,
Dead, even refentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Critic's rage!

So, by fome hedge, the generous fteed deceased, For half-ftarved faarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, fenfèlefs of each tugging bitch's fon.

O Dulness! portion, of the truly blest ! Calm fheltered haven of eternal reft! Thy fons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune's polar froft, or torrid beams. If mantling high fhe fills the golden cup, With fober selfish ease they fip it up. Conscious the bounteous meed they well deferve, They only wonder "fome folks" do not starve.

The grave fage hern thus eafy picks his frog,
And thinks the Mallard a fad worthlefs dog.
When difappointment fnaps the clue of hope,
And thro' difaftrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance fluggishly they bear,
And juft conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, paffive to the tempelt's fhocks,
Strong on the fign-poft ftands the stupid ox.

Not fo the idle Mufes' mad-cap train,

Nor fuch the workings of their moon-ftruck brain; In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in foaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentlefs and fevere, With all a poet's, hufband's, father's fear! Already one ftrong hold of hope is loft, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in duft; (Fled, like the fun eclips'd at noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O! hear my ardent, grateful, felfifh prayer! F*****, my other ftay, long blefs and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudlefs fkies his fun go down; May bliss domeftic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and foothe his latest breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

AE bony morning, clear and funny,

Our trades, wha ay like to be funny,
An' fpend a wee flight o' their money

On ufquabae,

Forgather'd, for their + Siller Gunny
To fhute that day.

*This and the following Poem, Hallow E'en, (both much in the ftyle of Burns) are the Production of a Scottish Bard of the name of JoHN MAIN,

+ The Silver Gun was prefented by one of our Scots monarchs to the incorporated trades of Dumfries, the practice of fhooting for which is no lefs ancient than that for the Silver Arrow, obferved at Edinburgh. To promote a thirst for mili tary achievements feems to have been the original intention : to attain which, it was to be fhot for once every two years; but, from the great expence with which this cuftom is attended, it has not been so frequently observed of late.

Wi' hat as black as ony.raven,

Weel powther'd wiggie, beard new fhaven,
And ilka kind o' cleeding having

In trim array,.

Furth cam ilk ane, fome cheap year's faving
To ware that day.

Fair fa' them, honeft cadgie carles,
Lang may they lieve, ay free o' quarrels,
And tipple aye frae gude tight barrels,

For, be my certie,

They were as braw as ony earls,

And e'en right hearty.

Nae feck o' fowk could boaft mae dainties; A'beit our lairds now rack their renties,

Whilk gars our canty cock-a-benties

Wear hodden grey,

Yet ilka journeyman and 'prentice

Was fnod that day.

For, as they gaen alang the cawfey, Wi' ilka thing fae trig and gawfy, They flaw the heart frae mony a laffic,

Right blate away,

Whilk gart them, wha afore were faucy,

Look doilt that day.

As gen'rals aft their troops conveen,

To fee they a' be trig and clean;