As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land
     Would take the Muses’ servants by the hand;
     Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
     And where he justly can commend, commend them;
     And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
     Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best! 
     Would a’ the land do this, then I’ll be caition,
     Ye’ll soon hae Poets o’ the Scottish nation
     Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
     And warsle Time, an’ lay him on his back!

     For us and for our Stage, should ony spier,
     “Whase aught thae chiels maks a’ this bustle here?”
     My best leg foremost, I’ll set up my brow—­
     We have the honour to belong to you! 
     We’re your ain bairns, e’en guide us as ye like,
     But like good mithers shore before ye strike;
     And gratefu’ still, I trust ye’ll ever find us,
     For gen’rous patronage, and meikle kindness
     We’ve got frae a’ professions, sets and ranks: 
     God help us! we’re but poor—­ye’se get but thanks.

Lines To A Gentleman,

     Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper, and offered
     to continue it free of Expense.

     Kind Sir, I’ve read your paper through,
     And faith, to me, ’twas really new! 
     How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted? 
     This mony a day I’ve grain’d and gaunted,
     To ken what French mischief was brewin;
     Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
     That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
     If Venus yet had got his nose off;
     Or how the collieshangie works
     Atween the Russians and the Turks,
     Or if the Swede, before he halt,
     Would play anither Charles the twalt;
     If Denmark, any body spak o’t;
     Or Poland, wha had now the tack o’t: 
     How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;
     How libbet Italy was singin;

     If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
     Were sayin’ or takin’ aught amiss;
     Or how our merry lads at hame,
     In Britain’s court kept up the game;
     How royal George, the Lord leuk o’er him! 
     Was managing St. Stephen’s quorum;
     If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
     Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
     How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
     If Warren Hasting’s neck was yeukin;
     How cesses, stents, and fees were rax’d. 
     Or if bare arses yet were tax’d;
     The news o’ princes, dukes, and earls,
     Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
     If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
     Was threshing still at hizzies’ tails;
     Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
     And no a perfect kintra cooser: 
     A’ this and mair I never heard of;
     And, but for you, I might despair’d of. 
     So, gratefu’, back your news I send you,
     And pray a’ gude things may attend you.