Epistle To Mr Tytler Of Woodhouselee

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart! - a Name once respected,
A Name which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that Wand'rer were royal.

My Fathers that name have rever'd on a throne:
My Fathers have died to right it;
Those Fathers would spurn their degenerate Son
That Name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King G- I most cordially join,
The Queen and the rest of the gentry:
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine,
Their title's allow'd by the Country.

But why of that Epocha make such a fuss,
That brought us th' Electoral stem?
If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them!

But Politics, truce! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrines today that are loyalty sound,
Tomorrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.