To Robert Graham of Fintry, Esq.

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg;
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest);
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?
(It soothes poor Misery, heark’ning to her tale),
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign,
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.
The lion and the bull thy care have found,
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found,
The horned bull tremendous spurns the ground;
The lordly lion has enough and more,
The forest trembles at his very roar:
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
Th' envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his cell.----
Thy minions, kings, defend, controul, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.----
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure.
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug.
Thy minion Man, exulting in his powers,
In fields, courts, camps, by altars, bars devours.
Kings bear the civil, Priests the sacred blade;
Soldiers and hangmen murder by their trade:
Even silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
Even silly women have defensive arts,
Their eyes, their tongues, and nameless other parts.

But O! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child----the Bard!
A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun,
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur.
No nerves olfactory, true to Mammon’s foot,
Or grunting, grub sagacious-Evil’s-root:
His dart satiric, his unheeded sting;
And idle fancy’s pinion all his wing;
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion Critics cureless venom dart.

Critics appalled, I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes;
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear:
Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in the unequal strife,
The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life.
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each Muse that glorious once inspired,
Till fled each Muse that glorious once inspir’d,
Extinct each ray that once his bosom fir’d.
Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless Critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceased,
For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast;
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious Self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e’er the fairest fairshe he meets
His solid sense by inches you must tell,
But mete his subtle cunning by the ell;
Much specious lore, but little understood,
Fineering oft outshines the solid wood:
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn’d vive la bagatelle et vive l’amour;
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies’ love:
His meddling Vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his Selfish-craft must mend------

Crochallan came;
The old cock’d hat, the brown surtout the same;
His grisly beard just bristling in its might,
‘Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night;
His uncomb’d hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch’d,
A head for thought profound and clear unmatch’d:
Yet, tho’ his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent and good.

O Dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the Mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care."
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train,
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;
In equanimity they never dwell,
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one strong hold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears:)
O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer!
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown;
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path;
Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death!