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LONG had I sought in vain to find A likeness for the scribbling kind; The modern scribbling kind, who write In wit, and sense, and nature's spite : 'Till reading, I forget what day on, A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, I think I met with something there To suit my purpose to a hair. But let us not proceed too furious, First please to turn to god Mercurius: You'll find him pictur'd at full length In book the second, page the tenth : The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile. Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right, With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bard's decreed. A just comparison,―proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand; By classic authors term'd Caduceus, And highly fam'd for several uses. To wit, most wondrously endu❜d, No poppy-water half so good; For, let folks only get a touch, Its soporific virtue's such, Though ne'er so much awake before, That quickly they begin to snore. Add too, what certain writers tell, With this he drives men's souls to hell. Now to apply, begin we then: His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twin'd, Denote him of the reptile kind; Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom'd bites; An equal semblance still to keep, Alike too both conduce to sleep. This difference only as the god Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,

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 postscript.
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?


JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears. 'An't 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.



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 shew'd the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.


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.

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