IV.

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence claffic Yarrow flows, Roufing the turbid torrents roar,

Or fweeping wild a waste of fnows.

V.

So long, fweet poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well haft won, While Scotia with exulting tear

Proclaims that Thomfon was her fon.

THE EARL OF BUCHAN'S INVITATION TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR, OF ULBSTER, ΤΟ BE PRESENT AT THE FESTIVAL OF THOMSON. 1791...

(FROM THE SAME.)

SINCLAIR! thou phoenix of the frozen Thule!
O fhape thy course to Tweda's lovely stream,
Whofe lucid, fparkling, gently flowing courfe
Winds like Iliffus through a land of fong:
Not as of old, when, like the Theban twins,
Her rival children tore each other's breasts,
And ftained her filver wave with kindred blood:
But proudly glittering through a happy land,
The yellow harvefts bend along her fields;
The golden orchards glow with blushing fruits;

Green

Green are her pastoral banks, white are her flocks,
That fafely ftray where barbarous Edward raged;
And where the din of clashing arms was heard
We hear the carols of the happy fwains,

3

Free as their lords, and with the purring looms,
Hark, hark, the weaver's merry roundelay!
The charming fong of Scotland's better day:
'Tis liberty, fweet liberty alone

Can give a luftre to the northern fun.

"Come when the virgin gives the beauteous days,
"And Libra weighs in equal fcales the year;"
Come, and to Thomfon's gentle fhade repair,
And pour libations to his virtuous mufe,
Where first he drew the flame of vital air,
"Where firft his feet did prefs the virgin fnow,

And where he tun'd his charming Doric reed.”
Perhaps where Thomfon fired the foul of fong,
Some voice may whisper in Æolian strains
To him who, wandering near his parent stream,,
Shall o'er the placid blue profound of air
Receive the genius of his paffing shade.
Come then, my Sinclair, leave empiric Pitt,
And raging Burke, and all the hodge-podge fry
Of Tory Whigs, and whiggish Tory knaves,
And bathe thy genius in thy country's fame :.
Let Burke write pamphlets, and let Pitt declaim;
Let us feek honour in our country's weal..

HUMOROUS EPISTLE OF THE POET THOMSON TO A

FRIEND, ON HIS TRAVELS.

(FROM THE SAME.)

December 7, 1742.

Trufty and well-beloved Dog,

HEARING you are gone abroad to fee the world, as they call it, I cannot forbear, upon this occafion, tranfmitting you a few thoughts.

It may feem prefumption in me to pretend to give you any inftruction; but you must know, that I am a dog of confiderable experience. Indeed I have not improved fo much as I might have done, by my juftly deferved misfortunes: the cafe very often of my betters.

However, a little I have learned; and fometimes, while feemed to lie afleep before the fire, I have overheard the converfation of your travellers.

In the first place, I will not fuppofe that you are gone abroad an illiterate cub, juft efcaped from the lafh of your keeper, and running wild about the world like a dog who has loft his master, utterly unacquainted with the proper knowledge, manners, and converfation of dogs.

These

Thefe are the public jests of every country through which they run poft, and frequently they are avoided as if they were mad dogs. None will converfe with them but those who fhear, fometimes even fkin them, and often they return home like a dog who has loft his tail. In short, these travelling puppies do nothing else but run after foreign bitches, learn to dance, cut capers, play tricks, and admire your fine outlandish howling: though in my opinion, our vigorous, deep-mouthed Britifh note is better mufic.

If a timely stop is not put to this, the genuine breed of our ancient sturdy dogs will, by degrees, dwindle and degenerate into dull Dutch Mastiffs, effeminate Italian lapdogs, or tawdry, impertinent French harlequins. All our once noble-throated guardians of the house and fold will be fucceeded by a mean courtly race, that snarl at honest men, flatter rogues, proudly wear badges of flavery, ribands, collars, &c. and fetch and carry sticks at the lion's court. By the bye, my dear Marquis, this fetching and carrying of sticks is a diverfion you are too much addicted to, and, though a diverfion, unbecoming a true independent country dog. There is another god-vice, that greatly prevails among the hungry whelps at court; but your gut is too well stuffed to fall into that. What I mean is, patting, pawing, foliciting, teafing, fnapping the morfel out of one another's mouths, being bitterly envious, and infatiably ravenous, nay, fome

times

times filching when they safely may. Of this vice I havé an instance continually before my eyes, in that wretched animal Scrub, whofe genius is quite misplaced here in the country. He has, befides, fuch an admirable talent at fcratching at a door, as might well recommend him to the office of a court-waiter.-A word in your ear-I wish a certain two-legged friend of mine had a little of his affiduity. These canine courtiers are also extremely given to bark at merit and virtue, if ill-clad and poor: they have likewise a nice discernment, with regard to those whom their master distinguishes : to fuch you shall fee them go up immediately, and fawning in the most abject manner-baifer leur cul. For me, it is always a maxim with me,

To honour humble worth, and, fcorning ftate,

Pifs on the proud inhospitable gate.

For which reason I go scattering my water every where about Richmond. And now that I am upon this topic, I muft cite you two lines of letter from Bounce (of celebrated memory) to Fop, a dog in the country, to a dog at court. She is giving an account of her generous offspring, among which the mentions two, far above the vice I now cenfure:

One ufhers friends to Bathurft's door,

Que fawns at Oxford's on the poor!

Charming