TO JOHN TAYLOR.
WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.
Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack:
Sol paid him with a sonnet.
Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod
I'll pay you like my master.
SKETCH-NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1790.
THIS day, Time winds the exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpaired machine,
To wheel the equal dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a-moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
་ Another year is gone for ever!'
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
'The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amused with proverbed lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust;
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life, in worlds unknown,
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as Misery's woeful night.
Since, then, my honoured first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us the important Now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Though you, with days and honours crowned,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787.
WHEN by a generous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame:
When here your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassioned with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song;
But here an ancient nation famed afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war-
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear!
Where every science-every 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 pedant dream,
Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's be
Here History paints with elegance and force,
The tide of empires' fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,
And Harley rouses all the god in man,
When well-formed taste and sparkling wit unite
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
Can only charm us in the second place,)
Witness, my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you 're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name:
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.
O thou dread Power! whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretched to shield the honoured land,
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire!
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's, chain;
Still self-dependent in her native shore
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drops on worlds to be no more!
SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW YEAR'S DAY EVENING, 1790.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste the more's the pity: Though, 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 coughed, 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 flushed 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 though 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, though not least, in love, ye faithful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important Now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, though haply weak, endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours;
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
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