EPISTLE
TO
HER
FRIENDS
AT
GARTMORE
.
MY
Gartmore
friends
a
blessing
on
ye
,
And
all
that's
good
still
light
upon
ye
!
Will
you
allow
this
hobbling
rhyme
To
tell
you
how
I
pass
my
time
?
'Tis
true
I
write
in
shorten'd
measure
,
Because
I
scrawl
but
at
my
leisure
;
For
why
?
—
sublimity
of
style
Takes
up
a
most
prodigious
while
;
To
count
with
fingers
six
or
seven
,
And
mind
that
syllables
are
even
,
—
To
make
the
proper
accent
fall
,
La
!
'tis
the
very
deuce
of
all
:
Alternate
verse
,
too
,
makes
me
think
How
to
get
t'other
line
to
clink
;
And
then
your
odes
with
two
lines
rhyming
,
An
intermitting
sort
of
chiming
,
Just
like
the
bells
on
birth-days
ringing
,
Or
like
your
friend
S.
Blamire's
singing
,
Which
only
pleases
those
whose
ears
Ne'er
heard
the
music
of
the
spheres
.
As
for
this
measure
,
these
trite
strains
Give
me
no
sort
of
thought
or
pains
;
If
that
the
first
line
ends
with
head
,
Why
then
the
rhyme
to
that
is
bed
;
And
so
on
through
the
whole
essay
,
For
careless
ease
makes
out
my
say
;
And
if
you'll
let
me
tell
you
how
I
pass
my
time
,
I'll
tell
you
now
.
First
,
then
,
I've
brought
me
up
my
tea
,
—
A
medicine
which
I'd
order'd
me
;
Its
from
the
coast
of
Labrador
,
Sir
Hugh
,
the
gallant
Commodore
Admiral
Sir
Hugh
Palliser
.
Brought
it
to
me
for
my
rheumatics
,
—
O
girls
!
these
aches
play
me
sad
tricks
;
—
And
e'en
in
London
had
you
found
me
,
You'd
found
a
yard
of
flannel
round
me
.
At
eight
I
rise
—
a
decent
time
!
But
aunt
would
say
'tis
oftener
nine
.
I
come
down
stairs
,
the
cocoa
ready
,
—
For
you
must
know
I'm
turn'd
fine
lady
,
And
fancy
tea
gives
me
a
pain
Where
'tis
not
decent
to
complain
.
When
breakfast's
done
,
I
take
a
walk
Where
English
girls
their
secrets
talk
;
But
as
for
you
,
ye're
modest
maids
,
And
shun
the
house
to
walk
i'
the
shades
;
Often
my
circuit's
round
the
garden
,
In
which
there's
no
flower
worth
a
farthing
.
I
sit
me
down
and
work
a
while
,
But
here
,
I
think
,
I
see
you
smile
;
At
work
!
quoth
you
;
—
but
little's
done
,
Thou
lik'st
too
well
a
bit
of
fun
.
At
twelve
,
I
dress
my
head
so
smart
,
Were
there
a
man
—
he'd
lose
his
heart
;
My
hair
is
turn'd
the
loveliest
brown
,
There's
no
such
hair
in
London
town
!
Nor
do
I
use
one
grain
of
powder
,
Either
the
violet
or
the
other
;
Nature
adopts
me
for
her
child
,
—
Fair
is
her
fruit
when
not
run
wild
.
At
one
,
the
cloth
is
constant
laid
By
little
Fan
,
our
pretty
maid
.
Round
her
such
native
beauty
glows
,
You'd
take
her
cheek
to
be
some
rose
Just
spreading
forth
its
blossom
sweet
,
Where
red
and
white
in
union
meet
;
She's
prettier
much
than
her
young
lady
,
But
that
,
you
know
,
full
easily
may
be
.
"
Well
,
Fanny
,
do
you
wish
to
go
To
the
dance
there
in
the
town
below
?
"
"
Yes
;
—
but
I
dare
not
ask
my
mistress
.
"
"
O
!
I'll
relieve
you
from
that
distress
!
"
I
ask
for
her
,
—
away
she
goes
,
And
shines
a
belle
among
the
beaus
.
Now
,
my
good
friends
,
by
this
you
see
,
Rustics
have
balls
as
well
as
we
;
And
really
as
to
different
stations
,
Or
comforts
in
the
various
nations
,
They're
more
upon
an
equal
par
Than
we
imagine
them
by
far
.
They
love
and
hate
—
have
just
the
same
Feeling
of
pleasure
and
of
pain
;
Only
our
kind
of
education
Gives
ours
a
greater
elevation
.
I
oft
have
listen'd
to
the
chat
Of
country
folks
'bout
who
knows
what
!
And
yet
their
wit
,
though
unrefin'd
,
Seems
the
pure
product
of
the
mind
.
You'd
laugh
to
see
the
honest
wives
Telling
me
how
their
household
thrives
;
For
,
you
must
know
,
I'm
fam'd
for
skill
In
the
nice
compound
of
a
pill
.
"
Miss
Sukey
,
here's
a
little
lass
,
She's
not
sae
weel
as
what
she
was
;
The
peer
peer
bairn
does
oft
complain
,
—
A'd
tell
ye
where
,
but
I
think
shame
.
"
"
Nay
,
speak
,
good
woman
,
—
mind
not
me
;
The
child
is
not
quite
well
I
see
.
"
"
Nea
;
"
she
says
,
"
her
belly
aches
,
And
Jwohnie
got
her
some
worm-cakes
;
They
did
nea
good
—
though
purg'd
her
well
,
—
What
is
the
matter
we
can't
tell
;
She
sadly
whets
her
teeth
at
neet
,
And
a'
the
day
does
nought
but
freet
;
It's
outher
worms
,
or
wind
,
or
water
,
Something
you
know
mun
be
the
matter
.
"
"
My
little
woman
,
come
to
me
;
Her
tongue
is
very
white
I
see
;
Come
,
wrap
her
little
head
up
warm
,
And
give
her
this
,
—
'twill
do
no
harm
;
'Twill
give
a
gentle
stool
,
or
so
.
"
"
Is
it
a
purge
?
"
"
No
,
Peggy
,
no
;
Only
an
easy
gentle
lotion
,
To
give
her
once
a-day
a
motion
;
For
Pothecaries
late
have
found
Diseases
rise
from
being
bound
,
'Gainst
which
they've
physic
in
their
shop
,
And
many
a
drug
,
and
useless
slop
;
This
here
will
purify
your
blood
,
And
this
will
do
your
stomach
good
;
This
is
for
vapours
when
splenetic
,
And
here's
a
cure
for
the
sciatic
;
But
let
her
take
what
I
have
given
,
'Twill
help
to
keep
your
child
from
heaven
.
"
"
Lord
grant
it
may
!
and
if
it
do
,
Long
as
I
live
I'll
pray
for
you
.
"
After
I've
dined
,
maybe
I
read
,
Or
write
to
favourites
'cross
the
Tweed
;
Then
work
till
tea
,
then
walk
again
If
it
does
neither
snow
nor
rain
.
If
e'er
my
spirits
want
a
flow
,
Up
stairs
I
run
to
my
bureau
,
And
get
your
letters
—
read
them
over
With
all
the
fondness
of
a
lover
;
This
never
fails
to
give
me
pleasure
,
For
these
are
Friendship's
hoarded
treasure
,
And
never
fail
to
make
me
gay
;
How
oft
I
bless
the
happy
day
Which
made
us
friends
and
keeps
us
so
,
Though
now
almost
five
years
ago
!
Trust
me
,
my
dear
,
I
would
not
part
With
the
share
,
I
hope
,
I've
in
your
heart
,
For
any
thing
that
wealth
could
give
;
Without
a
friend
,
O
who
would
live
!
My
favourite
motto
runs
—
"
He's
poor
Who
has
a
world
and
nothing
more
;
Exchange
it
for
a
friend
,
'tis
gain
,
A
better
thing
you
then
obtain
.
"
But
stop
,
my
journal's
nearly
done
;
Through
the
whole
day
'tis
almost
run
.
I
think
I'd
sipp'd
my
tea
nigh
up
,
O
!
yes
,
I'm
sure
I
drank
my
cup
;
I
work
till
supper
,
after
that
I
play
or
sing
,
maybe
we
chat
;
At
ten
we
always
go
to
bed
,
And
thus
my
life
I've
calmly
led
Since
my
return
;
—
as
Prior
says
In
some
of
his
satiric
lays
,
"
I
eat
,
and
drink
,
and
sleep
,
—
what
then
?
I
eat
,
and
drink
,
and
sleep
again
;
Thus
idly
lolls
my
time
away
,
And
just
does
nothing
all
the
day
!
"