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| WHAT needs this din about the town o’ Lon’on, | |
| How this new play an’ that new sang is comin? | |
| Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? | |
| Does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported? | |
| Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, | 5 |
| Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? | |
| For Comedy abroad he need to toil, | |
| A fool and knave are plants of every soil; | |
| Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, | |
| To gather matter for a serious piece; | 10 |
| There’s themes enow in Caledonian story, | |
| Would shew the Tragic Muse in a’ her glory.— | |
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| Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell | |
| How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? | |
| Where are the Muses fled that could produce | 15 |
| A drama worthy o’ the name o’ Bruce? | |
| How here, even here, he first unsheath’d the sword | |
| ’Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; | |
| And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, | |
| Wrench’d his dear country from the jaws of Ruin! | 20 |
| O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, | |
| To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! | |
| Vain all th’ omnipotence of female charms | |
| ’Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion’s arms: | |
| She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, | 25 |
| To glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman; | |
| A woman, (tho’ the phrase may seem uncivil,) | |
| As able and as wicked as the Devil! | |
| One Douglas lives in Home’s immortal page, | |
| But Douglasses were heroes every age: | 30 |
| And tho’ your fathers, prodigal of life, | |
| A Douglas followed to the martial strife, | |
| Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, | |
| Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads! | |
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| As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land | 35 |
| 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! | 40 |
| 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! | |
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| For us and for our Stage, should ony spier, | 45 |
| “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; | 50 |
| 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. | |
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