in', till him rives
horatian fame;
in thy sweet sang, barbauld, survives
even sappho's fme.
but thee, theocritus, wha matches?
they're no herd's balts, maro's catches;
squire pope but busks his skinklin' patches
o' heathen tatters:
i pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
that ape their betters.
in this braw age o' wit and lear,
will he shepherd's whistle mair
bw sweetly in its native air,
and rural grace;
and, wi' the far-fam'd gre, share
a rival pce?
yes! there is ane—a scottish !
t
Poem On Pastoral Poetry(2/4)