scots' prologue for mr. suthernd
on his be-night, at the theatre, dumfries.
what his din about the town o' lon'on,
how this new py an' that new sang is in?
why is outndish stuff sae meikle courted?
does nonsense mend, like brandy, when imported?
is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
will try to gie us sangs and pys at hame?
for edy abroad he o toil,
a fool and knave are pnts of every soil;
nor need he hunt as far as rome reece,
to gather matter for a serious piece;
there's themes enow in caledonian story,
would shew the tragic muse in a' her glory.—
is there n bard will rise and tell
how glorious walce stood, holess fell?
where are the muses fled that could produce
a drama worthy o' the name o' bruce?
how here, even here, he first uh'd the sword
'gainst mighty engnd and her guilty lord;
and after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
wrench'd his dear try from the jaws of ruin!
o for a shakespeare, or an otway se,
to draw the lovely, hapless scottish queen!
vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'gainst headlong, ruthless, mad rebellion's arms:
she fell, but fell with spirit truly roman,
to glut that direst foe—a vengeful woman;
a woman, (tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,)
as able and as wicked as the devil!
one dougs lives in home's immortal page,
but dougsses were heroes every age:
and tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
a dougs followed to the martial strife,
perhaps, if bowls rht, and right succeeds,
ye yet may follow where a dougs leads!
as ye hae generous done, if a' the nd
would take the muses' servants by the hand;
not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
and where he justly end, end them;
and aiblins when they winna stand the test,
wink hard, and say the folks hae doheir best!
would a' the nd do this, then i'll be caition,
ye'll soon hae poets o' the scottish nation
will gar fame bw until her trumpet crack,
and warsle time, an' y him on his back!
for us and for our stage, should ony spier,
“whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?”
my best leg foremost, i'll set up my brow—
we have the honour to belong to you!
we're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
but like good mithers shore before ye strike;
and gratefu' still, i trust ye'll ever find us,
fen'rous patronage, and meikle kindness
we've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks:
god help us! we're but poor—ye'se get but thanks.