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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 tho’ 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 gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,

      And warsle time, on’ lay him on his back!

      For us and for our stage should ony spier,

      “Whose aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here!”

      My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow,

      We have the honour to belong to you!

      We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,

      But like good withers, shore before ye strike.—

      And 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.

      CVII. SKETCH. NEW YEAR’S DAY. TO MRS. DUNLOP

      [This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]

      This day, Time winds th’ exhausted chain,

      To run the twelvemonth’s length again:

      I see the old, bald-pated follow,

      With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,

      Adjust the unimpair’d machine,

      To wheel the equal, dull routine.

      The absent lover, minor heir,

      In vain assail him with their prayer;

      Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,

      Nor makes the hour one moment less.

      Will you (the Major’s with the hounds,

      The happy tenants share his rounds;

      Coila’s fair Rachel’s care to-day,

      And blooming Keith’s engaged with Gray)

      From housewife cares a minute borrow—

      That grandchild’s cap will do to-morrow—

      And join with me a moralizing,

      This day’s propitious to be wise in.

      First, what did yesternight deliver?

      “Another year is gone for ever.”

      And what is this day’s strong suggestion?

      “The passing moment’s all we rest on!”

      Rest on—for what? what do we here?

      Or why regard the passing year?

      Will time, amus’d with proverb’d lore,

      Add to our date one minute more?

      A few days more—a few years must—

      Repose us in the silent dust.

      Then is it wise to damp our bliss?

      Yes—all such reasonings are amiss!

      The voice of nature loudly cries,

      And many a message from the skies,

      That something in us never dies:

      That on this frail, uncertain state,

      Hang matters of eternal weight:

      That future life in worlds unknown

      Must take its hue from this alone;

      Whether as heavenly glory bright,

      Or dark as misery’s woeful night.—

      Since then, my honour’d, first of friends,

      On this poor being all depends,

      Let us th’ important now employ,

      And live as those who never die.—

      Tho’ you, with days and honours crown’d,

      Witness that filial circle round,

      (A sight, life’s sorrows to repulse,

      A sight, pale envy to convulse,)

      Others now claim your chief regard;

      Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

      CVIII. TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE

      [These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.]

      Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through,

      And, faith, to me ’twas really new!

      How guess’d ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?

      This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted,

      To ken what French mischief was brewin’;

      Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin’;

      That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,

      If Venus yet had got his nose off;

      Or how the collieshangie works

      Atween

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