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would, but cannot, with a master's skill,

       Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:

       Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit

       For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90

       Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place

       Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

       Thou, Nature, art my goddess—to thy law

       Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!

       Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules

       Imposed at first, and since observed by fools;

       Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,

       And bring the sober matron forth to view,

       With all that artificial tawdry glare

       Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100

       Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste

       Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste;

       Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,

       Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please;

       By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued,

       However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,

       To northern climes my happier course I steer,

       Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year;

       Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,

       She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110

       To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow,

       What mighty blessings doth not England owe!

       What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense,

       Doth each revolving day import from thence?

       To us she gives, disinterested friend!

       Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end.

       When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,

       Come not her generous sons and take a share?

       And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,

       Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120

       Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,

       Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?

      Nor less our debt in science, though denied

       By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.

       Thence came the Ramsays,[102] names of worthy note,

       Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;

       Thence, Home,[103] disbanded from the sons of prayer

       For loving plays, though no dull Dean[104] was there;

       Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[105] call,

       That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; 130

       Thence Malloch,[106] friend alike to Church and State,

       Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate

       Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign,

       All daring infidels should seek in vain;

       Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,

       To this wise town by simple patrons brought,

       In simple manner utter simple lays,

       And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.

       Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream,

       Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; 140

       Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,

       And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;

       Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;

       There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,

       As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood—

       Wash off my native stains, correct that blood

       Which mutinies at call of English pride,

       And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

       From solemn thought which overhangs the brow

       Of patriot care, when things are—God knows how; 150

       From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,

       In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;

       From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power,

       And easy Humour wings the laughing hour;

       From those soft better moments, when desire

       Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire;

       When mutual ardours of the melting fair

       More than repay us for whole years of care,

       At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,

       And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 160

       That ancient seat, where majesty display'd

       Her ensigns, long before the world was made!

       Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,

       Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind:

       Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave,

       Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,

       Thy honest spirit into practice brings,

       Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.

       Let rude licentious Englishmen comply

       With tumult's voice, and curse—they know not why; 170

       Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains

       To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,

       And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,

       Things as they are, and not as they appear.

       With thee good humour tempers lively wit;

       Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit;

       And nature gave thee, open to distress,

       A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

       Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot

       Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, 180

       Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,

       By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,

       Or starves at home, or practises, through fear

       Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here.

       When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,

       The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head,

       Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,

       And, injured by one alien, rail at all;

       On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,

       To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190

       With needless truths their libels to adorn,

       And hang a nation up to public scorn,

       Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,

       And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.

       The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;

       True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.

       Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,

       Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

       If, by low supple arts successful grown,

      

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