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An Account of the Author, being an Epistle to the
Right Honourable Susanna Countess of Strathmore,
in the Year 1727; but newly revised and corrected,
with some Circumstances then omitted.
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 | Poems on several subjects |  |
An Account of the Author, being an Epistle to the Right Honourable Susanna Countess of Strathmore, in the Year 1727; but newly revised and corrected, with some Circumstances then omitted.
Madam,
To let you know my birth and station,
My vulgar life and education,
Take this swatch in a short narration.
A poor mechanic was my father;
(My mother had no riches either);
He was an artist of his trade,
And honest deem'd ay where he staid.
But shortly after I was born,
He dy'd, left me almost forlorn.
I was at school 'bout half a year;
That letter'd me first in the lear.
About the age of six or seven,
Cast wholly on the care of Heav'n,
I shifted time, toss'd by hard fortune,
Till I was near the age of fourteen;
Still poor, and destitute of friends,
With struggle scrambled through my teens.
I made a sham of turning packman,
Though my stock was not worth a plack, Ma'am;
Thus through the country I went vaguing,
Liv'd by a gentle way of begging:
The reason is, I was not able
To work for any fixed table;
For, when a child, I had a nurse,
That ev'ry day deserves my curse;
She, in her frolics, let me fall,
And brack my back, and bruis'd me all:
Unknown to father or to mother,
The vile trull did me almost smother.
None knew the pain that I did find,
Until it made me stark stane-blind.
So that I, for a whole year's space,
Saw neither light nor human face;
And to this day I am short-fighted,
But that's a wrong cannot be righted.
I rather mark it for a wonder,
That this distress I dy'd not under;
But Heav'n, by which all things are guided,
A longer life for me provided.
Then, when I was near aged twenty,
I dealt in sangs and ballads plenty;
Until my fancy pregnant grew,
But how to vent it I not knew:
Oh then, thought I, if I could write,
I'd have my wishes all complete.
My vulgar life and education,
Take this swatch in a short narration.
A poor mechanic was my father;
(My mother had no riches either);
He was an artist of his trade,
And honest deem'd ay where he staid.
But shortly after I was born,
He dy'd, left me almost forlorn.
I was at school 'bout half a year;
That letter'd me first in the lear.
About the age of six or seven,
Cast wholly on the care of Heav'n,
I shifted time, toss'd by hard fortune,
Till I was near the age of fourteen;
2
With struggle scrambled through my teens.
I made a sham of turning packman,
Though my stock was not worth a plack, Ma'am;
Thus through the country I went vaguing,
Liv'd by a gentle way of begging:
The reason is, I was not able
To work for any fixed table;
For, when a child, I had a nurse,
That ev'ry day deserves my curse;
She, in her frolics, let me fall,
And brack my back, and bruis'd me all:
Unknown to father or to mother,
The vile trull did me almost smother.
None knew the pain that I did find,
Until it made me stark stane-blind.
So that I, for a whole year's space,
Saw neither light nor human face;
And to this day I am short-fighted,
But that's a wrong cannot be righted.
I rather mark it for a wonder,
That this distress I dy'd not under;
But Heav'n, by which all things are guided,
A longer life for me provided.
Then, when I was near aged twenty,
I dealt in sangs and ballads plenty;
Until my fancy pregnant grew,
But how to vent it I not knew:
Oh then, thought I, if I could write,
I'd have my wishes all complete.
Then I got paper, pen and ink,
But how to write I could not think;
I gain'd good people where I past,
To teach me letters first to cast.
So I improv'd it to this pitch,
By which I reckon myself rich;
Ay since, ev'n to this very time,
I had delight in writing rhyme.
But how to write I could not think;
I gain'd good people where I past,
To teach me letters first to cast.
So I improv'd it to this pitch,
By which I reckon myself rich;
Ay since, ev'n to this very time,
I had delight in writing rhyme.
3
As for opinions, I confess,
I never upon them laid stress;
Sometimes a Whig, sometimes a Tory,
But seldom steadfast in one story.
The reason is, I'm not yet fix'd,
So my religion is but mix'd;
Yet, most of all, I do incline
The old Episcopalian line;
Yet not so fixed on this head,
But I can turn my coat for bread.
Yet don't mistake my meaning, as
If from the truth I meant to pass;
Th'essential parts of my opinion,
Is not in any sect's dominion;
Nor will I e'er be tied to think,
That in one spring I ought to drink.
I never upon them laid stress;
Sometimes a Whig, sometimes a Tory,
But seldom steadfast in one story.
The reason is, I'm not yet fix'd,
So my religion is but mix'd;
Yet, most of all, I do incline
The old Episcopalian line;
Yet not so fixed on this head,
But I can turn my coat for bread.
Yet don't mistake my meaning, as
If from the truth I meant to pass;
Th'essential parts of my opinion,
Is not in any sect's dominion;
Nor will I e'er be tied to think,
That in one spring I ought to drink.
In Christendom we all affect
The Christian name, in some respect;
Yet, to our shame, and our derision,
We're full of schisms and division.
Some are Papists, some are Prelates;
Some are Quakers, and some Zealots;
Some Anabaptists, some Aquarians;
Some Antinomians, and some Arians;
Some are Free-willers, and some Ranters;
Some Presbyterian covenanters;
Some Erskinites, to gain probation;
Some Glasites, some for Presentation.
Though these all aim at heav'n at last,
Their diff'rence puts me in a gast;
To follow which I cannot tell,
Therefore I bid them all farewell;
Because I know, that faith and love
The sphere is wherein I should move;
For sure, without true charity
None can enjoy felicity.
But charity, now at this day,
She is oblig'd to fly away;
Instead of which, envy and hate,
Contempt, resentment and debate,
Is most in each society.
This makes me all these sects deny.
'Tis not in word, as I do read,
But Christians must be so indeed;
So, Madam, this is all my creed.
The Christian name, in some respect;
Yet, to our shame, and our derision,
We're full of schisms and division.
Some are Papists, some are Prelates;
Some are Quakers, and some Zealots;
Some Anabaptists, some Aquarians;
Some Antinomians, and some Arians;
Some are Free-willers, and some Ranters;
Some Presbyterian covenanters;
Some Erskinites, to gain probation;
Some Glasites, some for Presentation.
Though these all aim at heav'n at last,
Their diff'rence puts me in a gast;
To follow which I cannot tell,
Therefore I bid them all farewell;
Because I know, that faith and love
The sphere is wherein I should move;
For sure, without true charity
None can enjoy felicity.
But charity, now at this day,
She is oblig'd to fly away;
4
Contempt, resentment and debate,
Is most in each society.
This makes me all these sects deny.
'Tis not in word, as I do read,
But Christians must be so indeed;
So, Madam, this is all my creed.
As for my stature, 'tis but little,
My body weak and very brittle;
Not eloquent; of simple carriage;
Plung'd in the careful state of marriage;
Rich in children, poor in wealth,
Bless'd with a competence of health;
A wanton mind, an heart that's cheery;
But seldom dull, and often merry;
Contented with my rural dishes,
Writing and thinking's all my wishes;
Though my encouragement's not meikle.
I'm Madam, yours, while ------
My body weak and very brittle;
Not eloquent; of simple carriage;
Plung'd in the careful state of marriage;
Rich in children, poor in wealth,
Bless'd with a competence of health;
A wanton mind, an heart that's cheery;
But seldom dull, and often merry;
Contented with my rural dishes,
Writing and thinking's all my wishes;
Though my encouragement's not meikle.
I'm Madam, yours, while ------
Sandie Nicol.
| Poems on several subjects | |