GRUB-STREET NAE SATIRE.

AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING .

Dear John, what ails ye now? — lie still:
Hout man! what need ye take it ill,
That Allan buried ye in rhyme,
May be a start afore ye'r time?
He 's naithing but a shire dast lick,
And disna care a fiddlestick,
Altho' your tutor Curl and ye
Shou'd serve him sae in elegy.

Doup down, doild ghaist, and dinna fash us,
With " carpet ground, " and " nervous " clashes;
Your Grub-street jargon Dryden wounds,
When mixt with his poetic sounds.
You pace on Pegasus! take care,
He 'll " bound o'er furrow'd fields " of air,
And fling ye headlong frae the skies,
Never a second time to rise:
With sic a fa, alake! ye 'll e'en a'
Dash into sherds like broken China:
China and men the same fate skair,
Ah me! baith bruckle earthen ware.

Lang serv'd ye in a mettl'd station,
The foremost beagle of our nation,
For scenting out the yielding creature,
Wha us'd to play at whats-the-matter:
But now, O fye for shame! to trudge
Mun Curle 's poor hackney scribbling drudge,
" To fill his pack, " while you, right fair,
Gain title braw, " his singing bear. "
But, John, wha taught ye ilka name,
That shines sae bonnily in fame,
Roscommon, Stanhope, Ramsay, Dryden,
Wha back of winged horse cou'd ride on?
A' them we ken; but wha the d —
Bad you up hill Parnassus speel?

You Ramsay make a feckfu' man,
Ringleader of a hearty clan:
Goodfaith it sets ye well to fear him,
For gin ye etle anes to steer him,
He 'll gloom ye dead: — in " rustic " phrase,
He 'll gar his " thistles " rive your " bays. "