STAND, critick, and before ye read
Say, are ye free of party-fead,
Or of a saul sae scrimp and rude
To envy every thing that's good?
And if I shou'd (perhaps by chance)
Something that's new and smart advance,
Resolve ye not, with scornful snuff,
To say 'tis a' confounded stuff?
If that's the case, sir, spare your spite,
But, faith, 'tis not for you I write:
Gae gie your censure higher scope,
And Congreve criticise or Pope,
Young's satires, or Swift's merry smile.
These, these are writers worth your while.
On me your talents wad be lost,
And tho' you gain a simple boast.
I want a reader wha deals fair,
And not ae real fault will spare
Yet with good humour will allow
Me praise, when e'er 'tis justly due.
Blest be sic readers. But the rest,
That are with spleen and spite opprest,
May bards arise to gar them dwine
To death with lays the maist divine,
For sma's the skaith they'll get by mine.
HOW many, and of various natures,
Are on the globe the crowd of creatures!
In Mexiconian forests fly
Thousands that never wing'd our sky.
'Mangst them there's ane of feathers fair,
That in the musick bears me skair,
Only an imitating ranter,
For whilk he bears the name of taunter.
Soon as the sun springs frae the east,
Upon the branch he cocks his crest,
Attentive, when frae bough and spray
The tunefu' throats salute the day.
The brainless beau attacks them a',
No ane escapes him great or sma'.
Frae some he takes the tone and manner,
Frae this a bass, frae that a tenor,
Turns love's saft plaint to a dull bustle,
And sprightly airs to a vile whistle.
Still labouring thus to counterfeit,
He shaws the poorness of his wit.
Anes, when with eccho loud the taunter
Tret with contempt ilk native chanter,
Ane of them says: "We own 'tis true,
Few praises to our sangs are due,
But pray, sir, let's have ane frae you."
Stand, creetic, an afore ye read
Say, err ye free o pairty feid,
Or o a saul sae scrimp an rude
Ti envy ivry thing that's guid?
An yif Ah shoud (perhaps bi chance)
Something that's new an smairt advance,
Resolve ye no, wi scornfu snuff,
Ti say 'tis aw confoondit stuff?
Yif that's the case, sir, spare yer spite,
But, faith, 'tisna for you Ah write:
Gae gie yer censur heicher scope,
An Congreve creeticeese or Pope,
Young's satires, or Swift's merry smile.
These, these err writers worth yer while.
On me yer talents wad be lowst,
An tho ye gain a simple blowst.
Ah want a reader wha deals fair,
An no ae real faut wull spare
Yet wi guid humor wull alloo
Me praise, whan e'er 'tis juistly due.
Blest be sic readers. But the rest,
That err wi spleen an spite opprest,
May bards arise ti gar thaim dwine
Tae daith wi lays the maist divine,
For smaw's the skaith thay'll get bi mine.
Hoo monie, an o various naiturs,
Err on the globe the crood o craiturs!
In Mexiconian forests fly
Thoosans that niver winged oor sky.
'Mangst thaim thare's ane o feathers fair,
That in the muisic beirs me skair,
Anely an eemitatin ranter,
For whilk he beirs the name o tanter.
Suin as the sun springs frae the east,
Upon the brainch he cocks his creest,
Attentive, whan frae beuch an spray
The tunefu throats salute the day.
The brainless beau attacks thaim aw,
No ane escapes him, gret or smaw.
Frae some he teks the tone an mainer,
Frae this a bass, frae that a tainor,
Turns leuve's saft plaint til a dull bustle,
An spreelie airs til a vile whustle.
Still laubourin thus ti kintrafut,
He shaws the puirness o his wut.
Anes, whan wi eccho lood the tanter
Tret wi contempt ilk native chanter,
Ane o thaim says: "We awn 'tis true,
Few praises til oor sangs err due,
But pray, sir, let's have ane frae you."