INSCRIBED TO JANET NICOL, A POOR OLD WANDERING WOMAN, WHO LIVES BY THE WALL AT LOUDOUN AND USED SOMETIMES TO BE VISITED BY THE COUNTESS. O Janet, by your kind permission, My muse, in tatter’d low condition, Would fain attempt, if you’ll allow, To dedicate a song to you. Possess’d of few attractive pow’rs, Her case does much resemble yours; So lest none else should deign to hear, She humbly supplicates your ear. Imprimis, she should compliment ye; A Venus or Diana paint ye; Count o’er your virtues by the hunder, And own they’re more than she can number. This she might do; but then ’twould grieve her, To find no mortal did believe her. She calls you patroness and friend, And begs that blessings may attend Upon you in your humble cot, And keep your ’scutcheon free frae blot. May sweet contentment, hard to find, With radient lustre light your mind; While numbers of your sister train Must for the treasure pant in vain. Bright Celia, with her conquering eyes, Attempts to win the doubtful prize: She darts a glance, ah! cruel maid, Philander drops! a strapping blade. The youth as frantic now behaves; Of love and flames, and darts he raves. Not Esculapius’ sons can cure, Nor ease the pangs he must endure. At last the charmer gives consent; Then Hymen does them both torment, With nameless ills unknown before, And ev’ry month augments the score. May stars propitious guard your life From all the mis’ries of a wife: Poor Delia’s sighs and tears next prove The pains of ill requited love. She danc’d, had wit, was wondrous fair, And seem’d Alonzo’s heart to snare. True love and constancy he vow’d; But this by all must be allow’d, That young men’s tongues do not impart The real language of their heart. He wed another, sad to tell! And bad the mournful maid farewel. O Janet, may you never know The pangs that lovers undergo. Cordelia too, with look demure, Contentment wishes to ensure. She flattering Cupid wont believe: She knows that Hymen can deceive; But fondly hopes in verse to shine, Assisted by the tuneful Nine; To call their treasures all her own, E’en in despite of fortune’s frown. But weak, alas! is her pretence; Her song proves destitute of sense. Each cavilling critic does her vex, And ev’ry censure sore perplex. O may you never feel the pain, We heedless scribbling fools sustain.