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

His heart by causelefs wanton -malice wrung By blockhead'o daring into madness ftung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear : Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife, The hapless poet flounders on thro' life. Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, And fled each Mufe that glorious once inspired, Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, Dead, even resentment, for his injured page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Critic's rage!

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So, by some hedge, the generous fteed deceafed, For half-starved fnarling curs a dainty feaft; 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 sheltered haven of eternal rest!
Thy fons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes .
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high fre fills the golden cup,
With fober selfish ease they fip it up:
Conscious the bounteous' meed they well deserve,
They only wonder “some folks” do not starve.

The grave fage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the Mallard a sad worthless dog:
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance Nuggishly they bear,
And just conclude that “ fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the figa-poft ftand's the stupid ox.

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train, Nor such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 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, selfish prayer ! F*****, my other stay, long bless and spare ! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; And bright in cloudless skies his fun go down; May bliss domestic fmooth his private path ; Give energy

to life; and soothe his latet breath, With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!

THE

*S I L V ER GU N.

A SIGHT SO RARE, MAKES WISDOM SMILE. AND FOLLY STARE!

Α Ν ο Ν.

CAN TO I. AE

E bony morning, clear and funny, Our trades, wha ay like to be funny, And spend a wee flight o' their money

Oni usquabae, Forgather'd, for their + Siller Gunny

To shute that day.

* This and the following Poem, Hallow. E'en, (both much in the style of Burns') are the Production of a Scottish Bard of the name of John Main. : † The Silver Gun was presented by one of our Scots monarchs to the incorporated trades of Dumfries, the practice of shooting for which is no less ancient than that for the Silver Arrow, observed at Edinburgh. To promote a thirst for military atchieve. ments seems to have been the originalintention; to attain which, it was to be shot for once every two years; but, from the great expence with which this custom is attended, it has not been so frequently observed of late. VOL. II.

B

Wi' hat as black as ony raven,
Weel powther's wiggie, beard new shaven,
And ilka kind o'cleeding having

In trim

array, Furth cam ilk ane, some cheap year's laving

To ware that day.

Fair fa' them, honest 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 boast mae dainties; A’beit our lairds now rạck their renties, Whilk gars our canty cock-a-benties

Wear hodden-grey, Yet ilka journeyman and 'prentice

Was snod that day.

For, as they gaen alang the cawley, Wi’ilka thing fae trig and gawfy, They itaw the heart frae mony a laffie,

Right blate away, Whilk gart them, wha afore were saucy,

Look doilt that day.

As gen’rals aft their troops conveen, To see they a' be trig and clean ;

Sae now, the dinlin drums, I ween,

Were beat to arms; And honest fowk were deav'd bedeen,

Wi' war's alarms,

Syne auld and young, o' ilka callin',
Were a' in order made to fall in;
And, 'ay the mair to keep the faul in,

And banish wae,
The bony bells made nae devallin,

Wi' joy that day.

- Hech, Sirs ! what crouds were gather'd round, To see them daiker thro’ the town!. Lad, lass and wean-wives, black and brown,

Wi'

age grown grey, Cam, fidging fain, to gi'e their boon

O praise that day.

E'en blithe to see them trigly drest, Auld Epps was there amang the rest And while, wi' joy, her fides the prest,

Like mony mae, Her approbation was exprest,

In words like thae :

« Wow! but it gars anes heart loup light " To see auld fowk fae cleanly dight! “ E'en now, our Geordie looks as tight

66 As the first time “ His bluiming haffets bless’d my fight,

“ When in his prime!"

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