So poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose:
Yet merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place for want of better:
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.
Beauty and wit, too sad a truth!
Have always been confined to youth;
The god of wit and beauty's queen,
He twenty-one and she fifteen,
No poet ever sweetly sung,

Unless he were, like Phoebus, young;
Nor ever nymph inspired to rhyme,
Unless, like Venus, in her prime.
At fifty-six, if this be true,
Am I a poet fit for you?
Or, at the age of forty-three,
Are you a subject fit for me?
Adieu! bright wit and radiant eyes!
You must be grave, and I be wise.
Our fate in vain we would oppose:
But I'll be still your friend in prose:
Esteem and friendship to express,

Will not require poetic dress;

And. if the Muse deny her aid

To have them sung, they may be said.
But, Stella, say, what evil tongue
Reports you are no longer young?
That Time sits with his scythe to mow
Where erst sat Cupid with his bow;
That half your locks are turned to gray?
I'll ne'er believe a word they say.

'Tis true, but let it not be known,
My eyes are somewhat dimmish grown;
For nature, always in the right,
To your decays adapts my sight;
And wrinkles undistinguished pass,
For I'm ashamed to use a glass:
And, till I see them with these eyes,
Whoever says you have them, lies.

No length of time can make you quit
Honour and virtue, sense and wit;
Thus you may still be young to me,
When I can better hear than see.
O ne'er may Fortune show her spite
To make me deaf, and mend my sight!

Her arms white, round, and smooth,
Breasts rising in their dawn,

To age it would give youth

To press 'em with his hand:

Thro' all my spirits ran

An extasy of bliss,

When I such sweetness fand
Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flowers which grace the wild,

She did her sweets impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd.

Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affected pride,

She me to love beguil'd;

I wish'd her for my bride.

O had I all the wealth

Hopeton's high mountains fill,

Insur'd lang life and health,

And pleasure at my will;

I'd promise and fulfil

That none but bonny she,

The lass of Patie's mill,

Shou'd share the same wi'me.

O'ER THE MOOR TO MAGGIE.

And I'll o'er the moor to Maggy, Her wit and sweetness call me, Then to my fair I'll show my mind, Whatever may befall me:

If she love mirth I'll learn to sing, Or likes the Nine to follow, I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring, And invocate Apollo.

If she admire a martial mind,

I'll sheath my limbs in armour;

If to the softer dance inclin'd,

With gayest airs I'll charm her; If she love grandeur, day and night I'll plot my nation's glory, Find favour in my prince's sight, And shine in future story.

Beauty can wonders work with ease,

Where wit is corresponding,

And bravest men know best to please,
With complaisance abounding.

My bonny Maggy's love can turn

Me to what shape she pleases,
If in her breast that flame shall burn,
Which in my bosom bleezes.

GIE ME A LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND.

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,

And we for life shall gang thegither; Tho' daft or wise, I'll never demand,

Or black or fair it maks nae whether.
I'm aff with wit, and beauty will fade,

And blood alane is no worth a shilling;
But she that's rich her market's made,
For ilka charm about her is killing.

Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land,

And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure;

Gin I had anes her gear in my hand,

Shou'd love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand,

I hate with poortith, tho' bonny to meddle; Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land,

They 'se never get me to dance to their fiddle.

There's meikle good love in bands and bags,

And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags,

Have tint the art of gaining affection.

Love tips his arrows with woods and parks,

And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows;

And naithing can catch our modern sparks,

But well-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows.