Stupidly dull!—but fools ay fools will be,
And nane's sae blind as them that winna see.
Where's vice and virtue set in juster light?
Where can a glancing genius shine mair bright?
Where can we human life review mair plain,
Than in the happy plot and curious scene?
If in themsells sic fair designs were ill,
We ne'er had priev'd the sweet dramatic skill,
Of Congreve, Addison, Steele, Rowe, and Hill;
Hill, wha the highest road to fame doth chuse,
And has some upper seraph for his muse;
It maun be sae, else how could he display,
With so just strength, the great tremendous day?
Sic patterns, Joseph, always keep in view,
Ne'er fash if ye can please the thinking few,
Then, spite of malice, worth shall have its due.

TO ROBERT YARDE OF DEVONSHIRE.

FRAE northern mountains clad with snaw,
Where whistling winds incessant blaw,
In time now when the curling-stane
Slides murm'ring o'er the icy plain,
What sprightly tale in verse can Yarde
Expect frae a cauld Scottish bard,
With brose and bannocks poorly fed,
In hoden grey right hashly clad,
Skelping o'er frozen hags with pingle,
Picking up peets to beet his ingle,
While sleet that freezes as it fa's,
Thecks as with glass the divot waws
Of a laigh hut, where sax the gither
Ly heads and thraws on craps of heather?

Thus, Sir, of us the story gaes, By our mair dull and scornfu' faes: But let them tauk, and gowks believe, While we laugh at them in our sleeve: For we, nor barbarous nor rude, Ne'er want good wine to warm our blood; Have tables crown'd, and heartsome beils, And can in Cumin's, Don's, or Steil's, Be serv'd as plenteously and civil As you in London at the Devil. You, Sir, yourself, wha came and saw, Own'd that we wanted nought at a', To make us as content a nation As any is in the creation.

This point premis'd, my canty muse Cocks up her crest without excuse, And scorns to screen her natural flaws With ifs, and buts, and dull because; She pukes her pens, and aims a flight Thro' regions of internal light,

Frae fancy's field these truths to bring,
That you should hear, and she should sing.
Langsyne, when love and innocence

Were human nature's best defence,
Ere party jars made lawtith less,
By cleathing 't in a monkish dress;
Then poets shaw'd these evenly roads
That lead to dwellings of the gods.
In these dear days, well kend of fame,
Divini vates was their name :

It was, and is, and shall be ay,
While they move in fair virtue's way:
Tho' rarely we to stipends reach,
Yet nane dare hinder us to preach.

Believe me, Sir, the nearest way
To happiness is to be gay;

For spleen indulg'd will banish rest
Far frae the bosoms of the best;
Thousands a year's no worth a prin,
Whene'er this fashious guest gets in:
But a fair competent estate

Can keep a man frae looking blate;
Say eithly it lays to his hand
What his just appetites demand.
Wha has, and can enjoy, O wow!
How smoothly may his minutes flow!
A youth thus blest with manly frame,
Enliven'd with a lively flame,
Will ne'er with sordid pinch control
The satisfaction of his soul.
Poor is that mind, ay discontent,
That canna use what God has lent,
But envious girns at a' he sees,
That are a crown richer than he's ;
Which gars him pitifully hane,
And hell's ase-middins rake for gain;
Yet never kens a blythsome hour,
Is ever wanting, ever sour.

Yet ae extreme shou'd never make
A man the gowden mean forsake,
It shaws as much a shallow mind,
And ane extravagantly blind,
If careless of his future fate,

He daftly wastes a good estate,

And never thinks till thoughts are vain, And can afford him nought but pain. Thus will a joiner's shavings bleeze, Their low will for some seconds please,

But soon the glaring leam is past,
And cauldrife darkness follows fast;
While slaw the faggots large expire,
And warm us with a lasting fire.
Then neither, as I ken ye will,
With idle fears your pleasures spill;
Nor with neglecting prudent care,
Do skaith to your succeeding heir:
Thus steering cannily thro' life,
Your joys shall lasting be and rife.
Give a' your passions room to reel,
As lang as reason guides the wheel:
Desires, tho' ardent, are nae crime,
When they harmoniously keep time;
But when they spang o'er reason's fence,
We smart for't at our ain expence.

To recreate us we're allow'd,

But gaming deep boils up the blood,
And gars ane at groom-porter's, ban
The Being that made him a man,
When his fair gardens, house, and lands,
Are fa'n amongst the sharpers' hands.
A cheerfu' bottle sooths the mind,
Gars carles grow canty, free, and kind,
Defeats our care, and heals our strife,
And brawly oils the wheels of life;
But when just quantums we transgress,
Our blessing turns the quite reverse.

To love the bonny smiling fair,
Nane can their passions better ware;
Yet love is kittle and unruly,

And shou'd move tentily and hooly ;

For if it get o'er meikle head,

'Tis fair to gallop ane to dead:

O'er ilka hedge it wildly bounds,
And grazes on forbidden grounds,
Where constantly like furious range
Poortith, diseases, death, revenge:
To toom anes poutch to daunty clever,
Or have wrang'd husband probe ane's liver,
Or void ane's saul out thro' a shanker,
In faith 't wad any mortal canker.
Then wale a virgin worthy you,
Worthy your love and nuptial vow;
Syne frankly range o'er a' her charms,
Drink deep of joy within her arms;
Be still delighted with her breast,
And on her love with rapture feast.

May she be blooming, saft, and young,
With graces melting from her tongue;
Prudent and yielding to maintain

Your love, as well as you her ain.

Thus with your leave, Sir, I've made free

To give advice to ane can gi’e

As good again:-but as mass John

Said, when the sand tald time was done,
"Ha'e patience, my dear friends, a wee,
And take ae ither glass frae me;
And if ye think there's doublets due,
I shanna bauk the like frae you."

AN EPISTLE FROM MR. WILLIAM STARRAT.

AE windy day last owk, I'll ne'er forget,

I think I hear the hail-stanes rattling yet;