Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding,
He dealt it free:

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him ay a dainty chiel,
An' fou o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera Deil,
That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie,
But may ye flourish like a lily,
Now bonilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,
Tho' o'er the sca.

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd
'Mang heaps o' clavers;

And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,
'Mid a' thy favors!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang

Ana sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin till him rives
Horatian fame:

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Ev'n Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus! wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches: Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air,

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane, a Scottish callan!
There's ane; - come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan,
But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,
I thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by haz'lly shaws and braes,
Wi' hawthorns gray,

Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are Nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love,

That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND, ON NEW-YEAR DAY EVENING.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste - the more's the pity!

Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam?

Good sense and taste are natives here at home.

But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good new-year!

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage, grave Ancient cough'd, and bade me say
"You're one year older this important day: "
If wiser, too - he hinted some suggestion,

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And, with a would-be roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word "think !”

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the Dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle:

That, tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him:
That, whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least, in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heav'n's peculiar care! To you auld Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers, bliss to give and to receive!

- -now.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavors, With grateful pride we own your many favors: And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms trn'v fee' it

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MON DAY, APRIL 16, 1787.

WHEN, by a gen'rous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame;
When here your favor is the actor's lot,
Nor ev'n the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,
It needs no Siddon's powers in Southron's song;
For here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war!
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honor'd to appear!
Where ev'ry science, ev'ry nobler art,
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle pendant dream,

Here holds her search by heav'n-taught reason's beam
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
Here Doug.as forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley* rouses all the god in man.

* The Man of Feeling, written by Mr. M'Kenzie.