ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUmfries.

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;

And last, my prologue-business slily hinted,—

Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
“I know your bent—these are no laughing times:
Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears-
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land!"

I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz―nay, more, the world shall know it;
And so, your servant-gloomy Master Poet.

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief:
I also think—so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and careless sigh,
Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five :
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,

Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope-thy neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf,
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.*

HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved
Frae common sense, or sunk enerved

'Mang heaps o' clavers ;
And och o'er aft thy joes hae starved,
'Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassię, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame:

*Gilbert Burns says, that though this poem was found by Dr Currie among Burns' papers, and in his writing, there is some doubt whether he was the author.

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives

Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel so clever ;

The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan,
But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes,

Wi' hawthorns gray,

Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ;
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell!
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love,

That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY

OF HIS POEMS, PRESENTED TO A LADY WHOM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED UNDER THE NAME OF CHLORIS.

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,

Nor thou the gift refuse,

Nor with unwilling ear attend

The moralizing muse.

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,

Must bid the world adieu

(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest lower,

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower.)

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,

Still much is left behind;

Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,

The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour's part;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship's truest heart.

The joys refin'd of sense and taste,
With every muse to rove:
And doubly were the poet blest

These joys could he improve.

POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR W. TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayer for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry,

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine,
Their title 's avow'd by my country.

But why of this epocha make such a fuss,

But, loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter ?