FABLES AND TALES.

Important truths still let your Fables hold,
And moral mysteries with art unfold:
As veils transparent cover, but not hide;
Such metaphors appear, when right apply'd.

LD. LANSDOWNE.

AN EPISTLE TO DUNCAN FORBES,

LORD ADVOCATE.

SHUT in a closet six foot square,
No fash'd with meikle wealth or care,
I pass the live-lang day;

Yet some ambitious thoughts I have,
Which will attend me to my grave,
Sic busked baits they lay.

These keep my fancy on the wing,
Something that's blyth and snack to sing,

And smooth the runkled brow:

Thus care I happily beguile,

Hoping a plaudit and a smile

Frae best of men, like you.

You wha in kittle casts of state,
When property demands debate,

Can right what is done wrang;
Yet blythly can, when ye think fit,
Enjoy your friend, and judge the wit
And slidness of a sang.

How mony, your reverse, unblest,
Whase minds gae wand'ring thro' a mist,
Proud as the thief in hell,

Pretend, forsooth, they're gentle-fowk,
'Cause chance gi'es them of gear the yowk,
And better chiels the shell!

I've seen a wean aft vex itsell,
And greet because it was not tall:
Heez'd on a board, O! then,

Rejoicing in the artfu' height,
How smirky look'd the little wight,
And thought itsell a man!

Sic bairns are some, blawn up a wee
With splendour, wealth, and quality,—
Upon these stilts grown vain,—
They o'er the pows of poor fowk stride,
And neither are to had nor bide,

Thinking this height their ain.

Now shou'd ane speer at sic a puff,
What gars thee look sae big and bluff?
Is't an attending menzie?

Or fifty dishes on your table?
Or fifty horses in your stable?
Or heaps of glancing cunzie?

Are these the things thou ca's thysell?
Come, vain gigantic shadow, tell!

If thou sayest yes, I'll shaw

Thy picture; mean's thy silly mind,
Thy wit's a croil, thy judgment blind,
And love worth nought ava.

Accept our praise, ye nobly born,
Whom heaven takes pleasure to adorn
With ilka manly gift;

In courts or camps to serve your nation,
Warm'd with that generous emulation
Which your forbears did lift.

In duty, with delight, to you
Th' inferior world do justly bow,

While you're the maist deny'd;

Yet shall your worth be ever priz'd,
When strutting nathings are despis'd,
With a' their stinking pride.

This to set aff as I am able,

I'll frae a Frenchman thigg a fable,
And busk it in a plaid;

And tho' it be a bairn of Motte's, (1)

When I have taught it to speak Scots,

I am its second dad.

(1) Mons. la Motte, who has written lately a curious Collection of Fables, from which the following is imitated.

FABLE I.

THE TWA BOOKS.

Twa books, near neighbours in a shop,-
The tane a gilded Turky fop;

The tither's face was weather-beaten,
And cauf-skin jacket sair worm-eaten.
The corky, proud of his braw suit,
Curl'd up his nose, and thus cry'd out:
"Ah! place me on some fresher binks!
Figh! how this mouldy creature stinks!
How can a gentle book like me
Endure sic scoundrel company!

What may fowk say to see me cling
Sae close to this auld ugly thing,

But that I'm of a simple spirit,
And disregard my proper merit!"—

Quoth grey-baird, "Whisht, Sir, with your din!
For a' your meritorious skin,

I doubt if you be worth within:
For as auld-fashion'd as I look,
May be I am the better book."-

"O heavens! I canna thole the clash

Of this impertinent auld hash;

I winna stay ae moment langer!”—

"My lord, please to command your anger; Pray only let me tell you that

"What wad this insolent be at ?

Rot out your tongue! pray, master Symmer,
Remove me frae this dinsome rhymer;

If you regard your reputation,

And us of a distinguish'd station,

Hence frae this beast let me be hurried,

For with his stour and stink I'm worried."
Scarce had he shook his paughty crap,
When in a customer did pap;

He up douse Stanza lifts, and eyes him,
Turns o'er his leaves, admires and buys him:
"This book," said he, "is good and scarce,
The saul of sense in sweetest verse."
But reading title of gilt cleathing,

Cries, "Gods! wha buys this bonny naithing?
Nought duller e'er was put in print:
Wow! what a deal of Turky's tint!"

Now, Sir, t' apply what we've invented:
You are the buyer represented;

And may your servant hope
My lays shall merit your regard,
I'll thank the gods for my reward,
And smile at ilka fop.

AE day a Clock wad brag a Dial,
And put his qualities to trial,

Spake to him thus: "My neighbour, pray
Can'st tell me what's the time of day?"
The Dial said, "I dinna ken."-

"Alake! what stand ye there for then?"-
"I wait here till the sun shines bright,
For nought I ken but by his light."-