ADDRESSED TO HENRY GREATHEAD, ESQ. THE, INGE

NIQUS INVENTOR. 'T's night, and hark! the eastern blaft

With fury blows upon the shore ;
The thunder rolls,—the rain pours fast,

And angry billows madly roar!
Now for poor failors' fate falls many a tear,
And many a bosom’s filld with anxious fear.
The morn returns-still thunders roar-

Loud blows the wind-the billows foam-
Shall sailors greet their friends on shore,

Or fee again their much lov'd home?
Alas! fo dire, fo ruthless is the storm,
No chance of safety Hope herself can form!
Afbriek now mingles with the blast;

Each fad foreboding proves too true ;.

See, on the rocks a fhip is cast,

See, to the rigging clings the crew!
Ah! who the fury of the surge can brave,
And snatch the fuffrers from a watery grave ?'
Thy facred claims now, Pity, urge,

Now prompt to bold exploit the brave :
'T'is done the Life-Boat cleaves the surge,

Intent the hapless crew to save ; The wreck's approach'd-on baard are all receiv’d, Rescued from danger, and from death repriev'd. Blow on, blow on, ye ruthless winds,

And idly rage, thou troubled main, Snatch'd from your power, the sailor finds

His much-lov'd friends and home again,
And bleffes oft, with grateful heart, the name : Y
Of him whose genius did the Life-Boat frame.
That name fhall ever live renown'd,

Alike to Fame and Albion dear,
Whilst commerce spreads her fails around,

Whilft British tars the world revere;
To latest ages still it fhall descend,
Grac'd with the title of-The Sailor's Friend.
Newcastléa

JOAN SAIELD.

I's
On Mr Churchill's Death.

SALE
AYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead

Says Richard, Tom, you lie,
Old Rancour the report hath fpread,
But Genius cannot die.

CUNNINGHAM.

I ” friends.

A something to have sent you,
Tho' it fhould serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento ;
But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a fang,

Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world foon, my lad,

And Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco' squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble fet your thought,

Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,

Where ev'ry nerve is ftrained,
I'll no say, men are villain's a';

The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked:
But och, mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted ;
If self the wavering balance shake,

Its rarely right adjusted !
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,

Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life,

They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,

Tho' poortith hourly ftare him ;
A man may tak a neebor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Ay free, aff han' your story tell,

When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weels ye can

Frae critical diffection ;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,

Wi' sharpen'd ny inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it :
I wave the quantum oʻthe fin,

The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a within,

And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,

Asliduous wait' upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justified by honor ; Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent.
The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order ;
But where ye feel your honor grip,
Let that

ay
be
your

border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause

Debar a' fide pretences ; And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear,

And ev'n the rigid feature :

Yet ne'er with wits prophane' to range,

Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist's laugh’s a poor exchange

For Deity offended !
When ranting rouird in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded ;
Or if she gie a random fing,

It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driv'n,

A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Hear'n,

Is sure a noble anchor !

Erect your

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth,

brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase; God send you speed,

Still daily to grow wiser :
And may you better reck the rede,
Than ever did th' adviser.

BURNS.

An Epigram.

A

Member of the modern great

Pass’d Sawney with his budget,
The Peer was in a car of state,

The tinker forc'd to trudge it.
But Sawney shall receive the praise

His Lordship would parade for;
One's debtor for his dapple greys,
And t'other's Thoes are paid for.

CUNNINGHAM.