University of Virginia Library

DEDICATION TO THE GRAND CATCHPOLE OF THE WORLD

You struck the Harp of Heav'n so loud
Olympus vaults resounded
The gods themselves in wonder stood
And Angels were confounded.

THE Messengers HIGH ROAD TO DESTRUCTION.

A HYMN,

To be sung by CATCHPOLES every morning in their families.

A POEM, MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO SIR JOHN FIELDING, LONDON.

Ye judges wrapt in condemnation,
delighting to weed God's creation,
Say, if the rogues were pull'd away,
Would not society decay?
A fiddle never is in Tone,
When all the strings are unison;
If ev'ry Man were Neal the Printer,
This world wou'd not be worth a splinter;
For all mankind by Divine Grace,
Are form'd to fill their proper place.
Behold Claudero, as contrast
To bigot and enthusiast:
Let ev'ry sopho take rebuff,
And see the fool in Jamie Duff;
Or, read his lordship's wild relation
Of human race in degradation,
While others link them to the skies;
Transplanting them to paradise.
Why, if we had no whore or rogue,
Ev'n honesty wou'd lose its vogue.
The judges son oft turns a Thief,
His wife and daughters whores, the chief;
Ev'n wet and dry, as darkness, light,
By interchanges, give delight.
How can a judge correct the whore
Who has oblig'd him oft before?
How can he thieves or rogues controul,
When weigh'd his avaricious soul?
See king of pruss escape the rope
And halters; far less robbers stop;
And law seems but a trap of state,
To hang low rogues, and save the great:
Most of the pilf'ring in our nation,
Alas! is owing to starvation;
For 'tis a fact, or I'll be bang'd,
Far worse to starve than to be hang'd.
'Tis no great virtue in the rich,
For stealing to have little itch;
But dire necessity invents
A sinful shift, for want of Rents.
The best way to reclaim a thief
Is, feed the rogue with good roast beef;
For whipping will have no effect;
And death succeeds a corded neck.
When labour's gone, and trade is dead,
What shall mechanics do for bread?
Sure in this kingdom few will stay,
That can escape by any way.
Labour to health and wealth conduces,
But punishment more rogues produces;
Ev'n so a hedge the closer grows,
The oft'ner gard'ners top its rows:
The milder laws are in a state,
More honesty they do create:
For when a rogue is once disgrac'd,
To ev'ry crime he turns bare-fac'd.
When judges act with moderation,
They are the glory of a nation;
Rogues may be hunted and pursu'd,
But never finally subdu'd.
The task will be Herculean,
An office for a foolish man;
For ev'n suppose rogues off were tore,
The honest folk wou'd soon get more:
Like Sysiphus the judge may groan,
To roll eternally the stone,
Which ay rebounding down the hill,
The wretch is damn'd to roll it still.
The growth of whores too in our nation,
Is plainly owing to starvation:
For, give the lasses work, and feed them,
To honesty you soon will breed them:
'Tis meagre want, when destitute;
That makes ev'n virtue prostitute;
And humble beauty often must
Be sacrific'd to op'lent lust;
Which, void of sentiment, or shame,
Ev'n boasts what it should blush to name.
Were I disposed here to joke,
I'd beg to hang the honest folk;
The judge might then his task fulfill,
And very little blood too, spill.
'Tis neither Englishman nor Scott,
That lives on earth, and sinneth not:
Let moderation justice bend,
And mercy be your darling end,
All God's creation will approve,
Reclaim'd by goodness and by love.

DORNOCK's Distress.

A TRAGICAL DIALOGUE.

SCENE I. Ecclefechin.

Dornock
Solus.
Enter Pastoris Filius, a writer.

Dornock.
Stop short my buck, I smell a rat,
And guess too what you're driving at;
With sham pretexts you slyly aim,
By cunning to run down the game;
Such master strokes of writers skill
Deter me from the dang'rous quill:
I'll give a fee with all my heart,
But not one fur of land I'll part;
Here's a round sum, espouse my cause
[giving a purse.
I ask no shelter but from laws;
Justice I want and ask no more,
Procure me that for yellow Ore;
But if you e'er assume to name
Transferrence that detested game,
I'll scorn your aid tho' son of church
And in the abbey rather lurch,
Let ev'ry villain do his worst,
I'm Dornick; they may go be curst. [Pastoris Filius aside.

I'm bauk'd by Jove,—he dreads my scheme.—
And wont divest or yield the game.—
Another project I must try,
His creditors I'll artful ply,
His debts I'll purchase, here and there,
And then I'll hound him as a hare. [Exit.


Vide Decreet of Ranking.

SCENE II. Abby of Holyroodhouse

Dornock
Solus.
Good God! my fate is wond'rous hard,
A subject for a Tragic Bard,
I'm rich, yet poor, a paradox,
May ev'ry writer rot with pox.
Betray'd and spung'd, harrass'd and chac'd,
By muckworm rascals straitly lac'd,
And forc'd to shelter in this place
Where Duns in vain do show their face:
Depriv'd of money, bilk'd by all.
An Abbey Laird they Dornock call.

Enter Scoundrel Grant.
[Grant]
Sir, may I make bold to ask the cause,
Why here you shelter from the laws;
Your face bespeaks your gentle birth,
Tho' frowns o'ershade it more than mirth;
Perhaps you have a large estate
Encumbered with great debate:
If so, I am an honest man,
Descended from a martial clan;
An agent too, my name is Grant,
So pious, some folk call me saint:
If you'll permit, I lend my aid,
But agents act not till they're paid;
Perhance just now you're scarce of cash,
Yet watches here are arrant trash;
Let me have that into your breeches
And I will muster up some speeches:
That without doubt will extricate
And purge from debt our large estate.

Dornock.
The watch is Gold, and all that's left
Of every Shilling I'm bereft;
But if you're honest, as you say,
The watch I'll freely give away:
Here, take it, worthy Mr Grant,
Too small a Fee for such a saint;
But, pardon me, I have some doubt,
Like my last Agent you'll turn out.

Grant.
May Poxes rot my Blood and Bones,
As also mortify my Stones,
If e'er I from your interest Swerve,
But faithfully my Client serve.

[Exit.
Dornock
solus.
Was ever man so fool'd and bit?
Damn Grant, the biggest scoundrel yet.—
Sure Hell wont close while he is out.—
I'm ruin'd now without all doubt.

Enter a Banker of Probity and great Worth, taking Dornock by the hand.
Banker.
Dear gentle Sir, dispel your Grief.
Accept my hand, accept relief,
From Harpies I will set you free,
Discharge them all and trust to me:
A Bargain fair I'll instant make,
Judge for yourself, my offer take.

Dornock.
Your gen'rous Soul has fired mine
My lands are yours, the deed I'll sign.—
I'm now above the power of want.
And freed from that curs'd Scoundrel Grant:
To him and Rascals not a few,
I now for ever bid Adieu.

[Exit.
Enter Scoundrel Grant, Pastoris Filius, and their Associates.
Grant.
Rage, Vengeance, Fury, Aid me now,
The lands are sold, what shall we do?
Infom the Son, and spur him on—
To law, to law, or we're undone.

G. M:
But where's the proof? their lies the Diel.—

Grant.
I'll swear for one, that he's facile
Causa Scientiæ, here's his Watch,
Which for a triffle I did catch.
I will betray him all I can,
And put his papers in your hand;
Pastoris Filius too will join
Though he has touched Dornock's Coin.
We'll swear such Oaths and never flinch,
As will convince the sacred Bench
That he's a Man in human Shape,
With intellects of puny Ape;
And that the Banker over reach'd,
By Doctrines base as e'er was preach'd.

G. M.
But if your Oaths should meet detection
Where will such Roguery find Protection?

Grant.
Hell is the damn'd infernal shore,
Where perjur'd Agents loudly roar,
Nor Hell I fear, at my great Change,
My Soul is bent on dire revenge.

Exeunt Omnes.

A POEM ON THE Lamentable Destruction of the Sign-posts in Edinburgh, Leith and Canongate, 1771.

Number I.

[Number II.]

Number II.