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First thought to rin a for't; (for bi kind
A hare's nae fechter 23, ye maun mind 14)
But seeing, that wi" aw its strength
It scarce cou'd creep a tether length,
The hare grew baulder 7 and cam near,
Turn'd playsome, and forgat her fear.
Quoth Mawkin, "Was there ere in nature
Sae feckless 28 and sae poor a creature?
It scarcely kens 9, or am mistaen,
The way to gang 30 or stand its lane31
See how it steitters"; all be bund 39
To rin a mile of up-hill grund
Before it gets a rig-braid frae 34''

The place its in, though doon the brae."
Mawkin wi this began to frisk,

And thinkin 36 there was little risk,
Clapt baith her feet on Partan's back,
And turn'd him awald in a crack.
To see the creature sprawl, her sport
Grew twice as good, yet prov'd but short.
For patting wi her fits, in play,
Just whar the Partan's nippers lay,
He gript it fast, which made her squeel,
And think she bourded 39 wi the deil.
She strave to rin, and made a fistle:
The tither catch'd a tough bur thristle40:

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*Gang] Go.

"Its lane] Alone, or without assistance. Steitters] Walks in a weak stumbling way. "All be bund] I will be bound. "Arig-braid frae] The breadth of a ridge from. In Scotland about four fathoms.

35 Brae] An ascent or descent. It is worth observing, that the Scotch when they mention a rising ground with respect to the whole of it, they call it a knau if small, and a hill if great; but if they respect only one side of either, they call it a brae: which is probably a corruption of the English word brow, according to the analogy I mentioned before.

lect the

Thinkin] Thinking. When polysyllables terminate in ing, the Scotch almost always negg, which softens the sound. Awald] Topsy-turvy. Fit] Foot.

Bourded] To bourd with any person is to attack him in the way of jest.

Thristle] Thistle. The Scotch, though they commonly affect soft sounds, and throw out consonants and take in vowels in order to obtain them, yet in some cases, of which this is an example, they do the very reverse: and bring in

VOL. XVI.

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"Yes, half a dozen times, I think, or more." "And will they pass?"-"They'll serve but for a day;

few books can now do more: you know the way;
A trifle's puff'd till one edition's sold,
In half a week at most a book grows old.
The penny turn'd 's the only point in view,
So ev'ry thing will pass if 'tis but new.”-

"By what you say I easily can guess
You rank me with the drudges for the press;
Who from their garrets show'r Pindarics down,
Or plaintive elegies to lull the town.”-

"You take me wrong: I only meant to say, That ev'ry book that 's new will have its day; The best no more: for books are seldom read; The world's grown dull, and publishing, a trade. Were this not so, cou'd Ossian's deathless strains, Of high heroic times the sole remains, Strains which display perfections to our view, Which polish'd Greece and Italy ne'er knew, With modern epics share one common lot, This day applauded and the next forgot?”

"Enough of this; to put the question plain, Will men of sense and taste approve my strain? Will my old-fashion'd sense and comic ease With better judges have a chance to please?"

"The question's plain,but hard to be resolv'd;
One little less important can be solv'd:
The men of sense and taste, believe it true,
Will ne'er to living authors give their due.
They're candidates for fame in diffrent ways;
One writes románces and another plays,
A third prescribes you rules for writing well,
Yet bursts with envy if you shou'd excel.
Through all fame's walks, the college and the
court,

The field of combat and the field of sport;
The stage, the pulpit, senate-house and bar,
Merit with merit lives at constant war."

"All who can judge affect not public fame;
Of those that do the paths are not the same:
A grave historian hardly needs to fear
The rival glory of a sonnetteer:
The deep philosopher, who turns mankind
Quite inside outwards, and dissects the mind,
Wou'd look but whimsical and strangely out,
To grudge some quack his treatise on the gout."-

superfluous consonants to roughen the sound, when such sounds are more agreeable to the roughness of the thing represented. 4 Stending] Leaping. Tyke] Dog.

Brewin] Brewing. "To drink of one's own brewing," is a proverbial expression for suffering the effects of one's own misconduct. The English say, "As they bake, so let them brew."

"Hold, hold, my friend, all this I know, and more;

An ancient bard' has told us long before;
And by examples easily decided,

That folks of the same trades are most divided.
But folks of diffèrent trades that hunt for fame
Are constant rivals, and their ends the same:
It needs no proof, you'll readily confess,
That merit envies merit more or less:
The passion rules alike in those who share
Of public reputation, or despair.

Varrus has knowledge, humour, taste, and sense,
Cou'd purchase laurels at a small expense;
But wise and learn'd, and eloquent in vain,
He sleeps at ease in pleasure's silken chain:
Will Varrus help you to the Muse's crown,
Which, but for indolence, might be his own?
Timon with art and industry aspires

To fame; the world applauds him, and admires:
Timon has sense, and will not blame a line
He knows is good, from envy or design:
Some gen'ral praise he 'll carelessly express,
Which just amounts to none, and sometimes less:
But if his penetrating sense should spy
Such beauties as escape a vulgar eye,
So finely couch'd, their value to enhance,
That all are pleas'd, yet think they're pleas'd by
chance;

Rather than blab such secrets to the throng,
He'd lose a finger, or bite off his tongue.
Narcissus is a beau, but not an ass,

He likes your works, but most his looking-glass;
Will he to serve you quit his favourite care,
Turn a book-pedant and offend the fair?
Clelia to taste and judgment may pretend;
She will not blame your verse, nor dares com-
mend:

A modest virgin always shuns dispute;
Soft Strephon likes you not, and she is mute.
Stern Aristarchus, who expects renown

From ancient merit rais'd, and new knock'd down,

For faults in every syllable will pry, Whate'er he finds is good he'll pass it by." "Hold, hold, enough! All act from private ends;

Authors and wits were ever slipp'ry friends:"

"But say, will vulgar readers like my lays? When such approve a work, they always praise." "To speak my sentiments, your tales I fear Are but ill suited to a vulgar ear. Will city readers, us'd to better sport, The politics and scandals of a court, [pore, Well vouch'd from Grub-street, on your pages For what they ne'er can know, or knew before? Many have thought, and I among the rest, That fables are but useless things at best: Plain words without a metaphor may serve To tell us that the poor must work or starve. We need no stories of a cock and bull To prove that graceless scribblers must be dull. That hope deceives; that never to excel, 'Gainst spite and envy is the only spell— All this, without an emblem, I suppose Might pass for sterling truth in verse or prose,❞—

"Sir, take a seat, my answer will be long; Yet weigh the reasons and you'll find them strong.

'Hesiod.

At first when savage men in quest of food,
Like lions, wolves and tigers, rang'd the wood,
They had but just what simple nature craves,
Their garments skins of beasts, their houses

caves.

When prey abounded, from its bleeding dam
Pity would spare a kidling or a lamb,
Which, with their children nurs'd and fed at
home,

Soon grew domestic and forgot to roam:
From such beginnings flocks and herds were seer.
To spread and thicken on the woodland green:
With property, injustice soon began, [man.
And they that prey'd on beasts now prey'd ot
Communities were fram'd, and laws to bind
In social intercourse the human kind.
These things were new, they had not got their
names,

And right and wrong were yet uncommon themes:
The rustic senator, untaught to draw
Conclusions in morality or law,

Of every term of art and science bare,
Wanted plain words his sentence to declare;
Much more at length to manage a dispute,
To clear, inforce, illustrate and confute;
Fable was then found out, 'tis worth your heed-
And answer'd all the purposes of pleading. [ing,
It won the head with unsuspected art,

And touch'd the secret springs that move the heart:

With this premis'd, I add, that men delight
To have their first condition still in sight.
Long since the sires of Brunswick's line forsook
The hunter's bow, and dropt the shepherd's
crook :

Yet, 'midst the charms of royalty, their race
Still loves the forest, and frequents the chase.
The high-born maid, whose gay apartments shine
With the rich produce of each Indian mine,
Sighs for the open fields, the past'ral hook,
To sleep delightful near a warbling brook;
And loves to read the ancient tales that tell
How queens themselves fetch'd water from the
well.

If this is true, and all affect the ways
Of patriarchal life in former days,
Fable must please the stupid, the refin'd,
Wisdom's first dress to court the op'ning mind."
"You reason well, cou'd nature hold her course,
Where vice exerts her tyranny by force:
Are natural pleasures suited to a taste,
Where nature's laws are alter'd and defac'd?
The healthful swain who treads the dewy mead,
Enjoys the music warbled o'er his head;
Feels gladness at his heart while he inhales
The fragrance wafted in the balmy gales.
Not so Silenus from his night's debauch,
Fatigu'd and sick, he looks upon his watch
With rheumy eyes and forehead aching sore,
And staggers home to bed to belch and snore;
For such a wretch in vain the morning glows,
For him in vain the vernal zephyr blows:

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Gross pleasures are his taste, his life a chain
Of feverish joys, of lassitude and pain.
Trust not to nature in such times as these,
When all is off the hinge, can nature please?
Discard all useless scruples, be not nice;
Like some folks laugh at virtue, flatter vice,
Boldly attack the mitre or the crown;
Religion shakes already, push it down:
Do every thing to please?—You shake your head:
Why then 'tis certain that you'll ne'er succeed:
Dismiss your Muse, and take your full repose;
What none will read 'tis useless to compose."—
"A good advice! to follow it is hard.-
Quote one example, name me but a bard
Who ever hop'd Parnassus' heights to climb,
That dropt his Muse, till she deserted him.
A cold is caught, this med'cine can expel,
The dose is thrice repeated, and you're well.
In man's whole frame there is no crack or flaw
But yields to Bath, to Bristol, or to Spa:
No drug poetic frenzy can restrain,
Ev'n hellebore itself is try'd in vain:
'Tis quite incurable by human skill;
And though it does but little good or ill,
Yet still it meets the edge of reformation,
Like the chief vice and nuisance of the nation.
The formal quack, who kills his man each day,
Passes uncensur'd, and receives his pay.
Old Aulus, nodding 'midst the lawyers strife,
Wakes to decide on property and life.
Yet not a soul will blame him, and insist
That he should judge to purpose, or desist.
At this address how would the courtiers laugh!
'My lord, you're always blundering: quit your
staff:

You've lost some reputation, and 'tis best
To shift before you grow a public jest.'
This none will think of, though 'tis more a crime
To mangle state-affairs, than murder rhyme.
The quack, you'll say, has reason for his killing,
He cannot eat unless he earns his shilling.
The worn-out lawyer clambers to the bench
That he may live at ease, and keep his wench;
The courtier toils for something higher far,
And hopes for wealth, new titles and a star;

While moon-struck poets in a wild-goose chase
Pursue contempt, and begg'ry, and disgrace."
"Be't so; I claim by precedent and rule
A free-born Briton's right, to play the fool:
My resolution's fix'd, my course I'll hold
In spite of all your arguments when told :
Whether I'm well and up, or keep my bed,
Am warm and full, or neither cloth'd nor fed,
Whether my fortune's kind, or in a pet,
Am banish'd by the laws, or fled for debt;
Whether in Newgate, Bedlam, or the Mint,
I'll write as long as publishers will print."

Unhappy lad, who will not spend your time
To better purpose than in useless rhyme:
Of but one remedy your case admits,
The king is gracious, and a friend to wits;
Pray write for him, nor think your labour lost,
Your verse may gain a pension or a post.”

"May Heav'n forbid that this auspicious reign Shou'd furnish matter for a poet's strain: The praise of conduct steady, wise, and good, In prose is best express'd and understood. Nor are those sov'reigns blessings to their age Whose deeds are sung, whose actions grace the

stage.

A peaceful river, whose soft current feeds
The constant verdure of a thousand meads,
Whose shaded banks afford a safe retreat
From winter's blasts and summer's sultry heat,
From whose pure wave the thirsty peasant drains
Those tides of health that flow within his veins,
Passes unnotic'd; while the torrent strong
Which bears the shepherds and their flocks along,
Arm'd with the vengeance of the angry skies,
Is view'd with admiration and surprise;
Employs the painter's hand, the poet's quill,
And rises to renown by doing ill.
Verse form'd for falshood makes ambition shine,
Dubs it immortal, and almost divine;
But qualities which fiction ne'er can raise
It always lessens when it strives to praise."

"Then take your way, 'tis folly to contend With those who know their faults, but will not mend."

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THE

POEMS

OF

PAUL WHITEHEAD.

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