Happy that man wha has thrawn up a main, Which makes fome hundred thousands a' his ain, And comes to anchor on so firm a rock, Britannia's credit, and the South Sea stock: Ilk blythsome pleasure waits upon his nod, And his dependants eye him like a god: Clofs may he bend champain frae e'en to morn, And look on cells of tippony with scorn : Thrice lucky pimps, or fmug-fac'd wanton fair, That can in a' his wealth and pleasure skair : Like Jove he fits, like Jove, high heav'n's goodman, While the inferior gods about him stand, 'Till he permits, with condefcending grace, That ilka ane in order take their place : Thus with attentive look mensfou they fit, 'Till he fpeak first, and fhaw fome fhining wit; Syne circling wheels the flattering gaffaw, As well they may, he gars their beards wag a'*. Imperial gowd! what is 't thou canna grant ? Poffeft of thee, what is 't a man needs want? Commanding coin! there's nothing hard to thee; I canna guess how rich fowk come to die.

Unhappy

*Feafts them at his own proper coft: hence the proverbs "Tis fair in ha' where beards wag a'."

Unhappy wretch! link'd to the threed-bare nine, The dazzling equipage can ne'er be thine: Deftin'd to toil thro' labyrinths of verse, Dar'ft fpeak of great stock-jobbing as a farce. Poor thoughtless mortal! vain of airy dreams, The flying horse, and bright Apollo's beams, And Helicon's werfh well thou ca's divine, Are naithing like a mistress, coach, and wine.

Wad fome good patron, whase superior skill
Can make the South Sea ebb and flow at will,
Put in a stock for me, I own it fair,

In epic strain I'd pay him to a hair;
Immortalize him, and whate'er he loves,
In flowing numbers I fhall fing " approves :"
If not, fox like, I'll thraw my gab and gloom,
And ca' your hundred thousand a four plum *.

* The fox in_the fable, that defpifed the plumbs he could not reach, is well known :-one hundred thousand pounds being called a plumb, makes this a right pun; and fome puns deserve not to be claffed among low wit, though the generality

of them do.

THE RISE AND FALL OF STOCKS IN 1720:

AN EPISTLE TO LORD RAMSAY.

MY LORD,

WITHOUTTEN preface or preamble,
My fancy being
being on a ramble,
Transported with an honest passion,
Viewing our poor bambouzl'd nation,
Biting her nails, her knuckles wringing,
Her cheeks fae blae, her lips fae hinging;
Grief and vexation 's like to kill her,
For tyning baith her tick and filler.

Allow me then to make a comment
On this affair of greatest moment,
Which has fa'n out, my Lord, fince ye
Left Lothian and the Edgewell tree

:

And,

* An oak tree which grows on the fide of a fine spring, nigh the caftle of Dalhoufie; very much obferved by the country people, who give out, that before any of the family died, a branch fell from the Edgewell tree. The old tree, some few years ago, fell altogether; but another sprung from the fame root, which is now tall and flourishing; and lang be it fae.

And, with your leave, I needna stickle
To fay we 're in a forry pickle,

Since poortith o'er ilk head does hover
Frae John-a-Groat's house fouth to Dover.
Sair have we pelted been with stocks,
Cafting our credit at the cocks;

Lang guilty of the highest treason
Against the government of reason;
We madly, at our ain expences,
Stock-jobb'd away our cash and senses.

As little bairns frae winnocks hy
Drap down faip-bells to waiting fry,¦
Wha run and wrestle for the prize,
With face erect and watchfou eyes;
The lad wha gleggeft waits upon it,
Receives the bubble on his bonnet,
Views with delight the fhining beau-thing,
Which in a twinkling bursts to nothing:
Sae Britain brought on a' her troubles,
By running daftly after bubbles.

Impos'd on by lang-nebit jugglers,
Stock-jobbers, brokers, cheating smugglers,
Wha fet their gowden girns fae wylie,
Tho' ne'er fae cautious, they 'd beguile ye:

The

*The northmoft house in Scotland.

The covetous infatuation

Was fmittle out o'er all the nation

Clergy, and lawyers, and physicians,
Mechanics, merchants, and muficians;
Baith fexes, of a' forts and fizes,
Drap ilk defign, and jobb'd for prizes;
Frae noblemen to livery varlets,
Frae topping toasts to hackney harlots:
Poetic dealers were but scarce,

Less browden ftill on cash than verse;
Only ae bard to coach did mount,
By finging praise to Sir John Blunt ;
But fince his mighty patron fell,

He looks just like Jock Blunt himsel †.

Some lords and lairds fell'd riggs and castles,

And play'd them aff with tricky rascals,
Wha now with routh of riches vapour,
While their late honours live on paper:
But ah! the difference 'twixt good land,
And a poor bankrupt bubble's band.

Thus

* Vide Dick Francklin's epiftle.

†This is commonly faid of a perfon who is out of countenance at a difappointment.