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THERE'S ither Poets much your betters,

'Far feen in Greek, deep men o' letters,

'Hae thought they had enfur'd their debtors, A' future ages;

'Now moths deform in fhapeless tatters

Their unknown pages."

THEN farewel hopes o' laurel-boughs, lla

To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where bufy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My ruftic fang.

I'LL wander on with tentlefs heed,

How never-halting moments fpeed,

Till fate fhall fnap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why o' Death begin a tale ?

Just now we're living found an' hale;

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Then top and maintop croud the fail,

Heave Care o'er-fide

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

THIS life, fae far's I understand,

Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where Pleasure is the Magic Wand,

That wielded right,

Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

THE magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's fpeel'd,

See,

See, crazy, weary, joylefs Eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hoftin, hirplin owre the field,

Wi' creeping pace.

WHEN ance life's day draws near the gloamin,

Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;

An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,

An' focial noise;

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

O LIFE! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold-paufing Caution's leffon fcorning,

We frisk away.

Like fchool-boys at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

WE wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rofe upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves,

SOME, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,

For which they never toil'd nor fwat;

They drink the fweet and eat the fat,

But care or pain.

And, haply, eye the barren hut,

With high difdain.

WITH fteady aim, fome Fortune chafe;

Keen hope does ev'ry finew brace;

Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,

And feize the prey:

Then

Then canie, in fome cozie place,

They clofe the day.

AND others, like your humble servan”,

Poor wights! nae rules nor roads obfervin;

To right or left, eternal fwervin,

They zig-zag on;

Till curft with age, obfcure an' ftarvin,

They aften groan.

ALAS! what bitter toil an' ftraining

But truce, with peevish, poor complaining! Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'eh let her gang!

Beneath what light fhe has remaining,

Let's fing our fang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, 'Ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,

'Tho'

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