Classic Poem

'T IS granted, Sir, pains may be spar'd
Your merit to set forth,
When there 's sae few wha claim regard,
That disna ken your worth.

Yet poets give immortal fame
To mortals that excel,
Which if neglected they 're to blame;
But you 've done that yoursell.

While frae originals of yours
Fair copies shall be tane,
And fix'd on brass to busk our bow'rs,
Your mem'ry shall remain.

To your ain deeds the maist deny'd,
Or of a taste o'er fine,
May be ye 're but o'er right, afraid
To sink in verse like mine.

The last can ne'er the reason prove,
Else wherefore with good will
Do ye my nat'ral lays approve,
And help me up the hill?

By your assistance unconstrain'd,
To courts I can repair,
And by your art my way I 've gain'd
To closets of the fair.

Had I a muse like lofty Pope,
For tow'ring numbers fit,
Then I th' ingenious mind might hope
In truest light to hit.

But comic tale, and sonnet slee,
Are casten for my share,
And if in these I bear the gree,
I 'll think it very fair.