Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication ;

But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, you see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to you: Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronise them wi' your favour, And your petitioner shall ever

I had amaist said, ever pray,

But that's a word I need na say:

For prayin I hae little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r, That kens or hears about you, Sir

May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark,

• Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk !

May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart,

For that same gen'rous spirit smart!

May K******'s far-honoured name

Lang beet his hymeneal flame,

• Till H*******s, at least a dizen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen :
Five bonnie lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able,
To serve their King and Country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!

May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days;

• Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,

• When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!'

I will not wind a lang conclusion, Wi' complimentary effusion:

But whilst your wishes and endeavours,
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) That iron-hearted carl, Want, Attended in his grim advances,

By sad mistakes, and black mischances,

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am,

Your humble servant then no more,

For who would humbly serve the poor!
But, by a poor man's hopes in heav'n!
While recollection's pow'r is giv'n,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,

If friendless, low, we meet together,

Then, Sir, your hand,-my friend and brother!

ΤΟ

A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET

AT CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie,
Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,

Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,

How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations

Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now, haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;

Na, faith ye yet!

ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height

O' Miss's bonnet.

My sooth; right bauld ye set your nose out,

As plump and gray as onie grozet;

O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!