Ye flustering beaux, and every rake
That read or list around,
By this wasp's fate example take,

Nor lag on unknown ground:
Else ye may come to mourn too late,
And stretch your mouths and roar,
And curse your bitter pining fate
When ye can sting no more.

Eppie and the Deil,

A TALE.

AULD Eppie was a thrifty wife,
And she had spun maist a' her life,
For threescore year rowed in her cloak,
She sat, and rugged at the rock.

As Eppie's life had lang been single,
She whiles span by a neighbour's ingle,
And when the sun slade out o' sight,
She daundered hamewards ower the height,
Lamenting aft, that poortith caul',
For her to spin wha scarce could crawl.

As Eppie wi' her wheel gaed hame, Toome hunger cracking in her wame, Made her regret wi' mony a grane, That she sae far a-field had gaen; The wind whiles whirling round the rock, Aft lent her on the lug a stroke;

Right cankry to hersel' she cracket,

"That wheel o' mine the devil take it—"

Nae sooner had she said the word
Than Clootie, shapet like a burd,
Flew down, as big's a twomont ca',
And clinket Eppie's wheel awa'.

Half dead wi' fright, up to the lift

She glowred, and saw him spur like drift,
As fast as ony bleeze o' pouther,

Out through the cluds wi't'ower his shouther.
"Aye, aye," quoth Epps, "and so it's you,
Ye auld confounded thief-like sow!
Nae doubt ye're keen to try your hand
Amang your hairy, blackguard band?
Ye maybe think that spinning's naething!
And that it wastes na sap nor breathing?
Ye're new-fangled now, but wait a wee
Till ance ye've spun as lang as me,
I'll wad a dollar, Mr. Deil,

Ye'll gladly gie me back my wheel."

Cloots heard, and though he was the devil,

For ance he acted vera civil,

For, laughing at poor Eppie's crack,
He threw the wheel down on her back.
When ill luck comes, be't mair or less,
It's aye best then to acquiesce,

And rather laugh, though gear sud lea' us,
Than whinge whene'er it's harl❜t frae us.
This taks the stang frae ilka cross,
And gars us rise aboon the loss;

Gars fortune whiles gie owre to hiss us,
And, smiling, turn about and bless us.

Your goodness was pleased to remit me a while; a These Poems, well known in the literary world, were sent to the author by a friend, with this sincere and warm recommendation of being the most chaste and delicate productions he had ever met with. Some of the pieces, however, appearing scarce worthy of such a character, occasioned the above epistle.

Which, though they have seen near a couple of ages,
Still flow in a simple smooth beauty of style.
Wit here and there flashes, the reader alarming,
And humour oft bends the pleased face to smile;
How sweetly he sings of his Chloe so charming;
How lofty of William's dread conquests and spoil.

And, oh! how the heart with soft passion is moved,
While Emma pours out her fond bosom in song;
In tears I exclaim, Heav'ns! how the maid loved,
But ah! 'twas too cruel to try her so long.
But quickly young Laughter extirpates my mourning,
To hear the poor doctor haranguing his wife,
Who stretched upon bed, lies tumultuously turning,
And pants to engage in sweet Venus's strife.

In short, my good friend, I esteem him a poet, Whose mem'ry will live while the luscious can charm;

And Rochester sure had desisted to show it,

If conscious that Pindar so keenly could warm. So nicely he paints it, he words it so modest,

So swiftly he varies his flight in each line; Now soaring on high, in expressions the oddest,

Now sinking, and deigning to grovel with swine.

The Ladle, O raptures! what bard can exceed it?
"His modesty, sir, I admire him for that"-
Hans Carvel most gloriously ends when you read it,
But Paulo Purganti-how flaming! how fat!
Ten thousand kind thanks I return for your bounty;
For troth I'm transported whenever I think
How Fame will proclaim me aloud through each
county,

For singing like Pindar of ladles and st―k.

O

8

Lines written on a Summer Ebening,

Now day's bright orb has left our lonely sphere,
No more the flocks, no more the flowers appear;
But still and slow descend the balmy dew,

And earth's dark surface with their moisture strew.
Night comes apace, faint gleams the western day,
Hoarse screams the corn-craik from the dewy hay;
Crawled from yon ruins, where she shuns the light,
The flutt'ring bat begins her mazy flight.
All æther's hushed, no other sound I hear,
Save some lone stream slow murm'ring on my ear.
But, see! the moon, deep-flushed with paler light,
Of clouds disrobed, dispels the pitchy night,
With rising splendour brightens to the view,
Gay, rolling onward through the Olympian blue;
The stars surrounding, sparkle on the eye,
And Night in solemn pomp o'erspreads the sky,
My heart exults at such a scene as this,
And feels emotions words can ne'er express.

A Character.

Whoe'er offends at some unlucky time,
Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme;
Sacred to ridicule, his whole life long,

And the sad burden of some merry song.

POPE.

AUSTERIO, an insipid senseless old wretch,

Who all the whole morn in his bed lies a snoring,

By cheating and lying has made himself rich,

And spends the whole night o'er his papers a poring.

He tosses, he tumbles, and rolls in his bed,

Like a swine in her sty, or a door on its hinges;
When his landlady calls him, he lifts up his head,
D-ns her haste-rubs his eyes, and most lazily
whinges.

O

Then groans out, "Bring here my warmed breeches and shirts,"

And launches one dirty be leg from the sheeting; Cleans his jaws from a deluge of ugly brown squirts; Draws a chair, and prepares, gracious heaven! for eating.

All day with a fist in each pocket he walks,

With the air of a goose, from one shop to another; Of caption and horning eternally talks,

For he'd d-n to a jail and starvation his brother. Some folk, ere they swear to the value or price, Consult with their conscience, lest they prove uncivil;

But- when he sells, (for he ne'er was too nice)
Confers with his rev'rend old partner-the devil.
If Horns with a grin, whisper into his ear,

My boy, raise thy arm, or by Jove, they'll us

cozen;

By the heavens, or earth, or by any thing swear".
He'll swear oath on oath for a sixpence a dozen.

TO THE

Wonourable William MM'Dowal of Garthland,

ON HIS RETURN FROM PARLIAMENT, JULY, 1791.

WELCOME Once more, from scenes of pomp and noise,
To rural peace and undisturbed joys:

Welcome! the blessings of the poor to share,
That smiles and tears of gratitude declare.
Smiles, from the soul that undissembled dart,

And tears warm streaming from th' o'erflowing heart.
Blest be that arm! when Famine from his den,
Led on by fools and deep-designing men,