In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptized him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.
Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite;
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white;
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction-
I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle.
But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honor my story.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;
sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses,
For using thy name offers fifty excuses.
Good L-d, what is man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks;
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.
On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labors, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbors:
Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him; For, spite of his fine, theoretic positions,
Mankind is a science defies definitions.
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe;
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind,
As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though, like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.
A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish they grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood;
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must mend.
1 This sketch seems to be one of a series, intended for a projected work, under the title of "The Poet's Progress." This character was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus noticed: "The fragment beginning 'A little, upright, pert, tart,' &c., I have not shown to any man living, till I now show it to you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait sketching."
For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries.
WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon❜on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae mickle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece,
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.-
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And though your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land,
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins' when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best;
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar3 Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
An' warsle Time an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,"
"Whase aught thae chiels" maks a' this bustle here?"
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honor to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before you strike,-
An' gratefu' still I hope ye 'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks:
God help us! we 're but poor-ye 'se get but thanks.
Spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, on New-Year-Day evening.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste-the more 's the pity:
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new-year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story.
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
"You're one year older this important day :"
If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word-"think!"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and
spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
1 Perhaps.-2 Security.—3 Mak 3-4 To struggle.-Inquire.-6 Fellows.To chide
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you 'll mind th' important-now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers, bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavors, With grateful pride we own your many favors; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
Spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit Night, Monday, April 16, 1787
WHEN by a generous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame ;
When here your favor is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song:
But here an ancient nation, famed afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war-
Hail, Caledonia! name forever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honor'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art-
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream,
Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
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