With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postcript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it-Stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance,
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears. 'A'nt please you,'quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;

Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your

graces,

As I hope to be sav'd, without thinking on asses.'

Edinburgh, 1753.

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond'rous short
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends,
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets,
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied,
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom―is, to die.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore

The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling
Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of
trading;

Yet, ere he lands, has order'd me before
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is
lost?

This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder; [Upper gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've [Pit. Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles in 'em

seen 'em

[Balconies.

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage.
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:
[Tasting them.

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O, there the people are best keep my distance;
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance;
Our ship's well-stored-in yonder creek we've
laid her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure: lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought
from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What, no reply to promises so ample?
-I'd best step back, and order up a sample.

SONG.

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain!

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe; And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.