Classic Poem

THE GENERAL MISTAKE.

INSCRIBED TO LORD ERSKINE .

The finish'd mind in all its movements bright,
Surveys the self-made sumph in proper light,
Allows for native weakness, but disdains
Him who the character with labour gains:
Permit me then, my Lord, (since you arise
With a clear saul aboon the common size,)
To place the following sketches in your view;
The warld will like me if I 'm rees'd by you.

Is there a fool, frae senator to swain?
Take ilk ane's verdict for himself — there 's nane.
A thousand other wants make thousands fret,
But nane for want of wisdom quarrels fate.
Alas! how gen'ral proves the great mistake,
When others thro' their neighbours' failings rake;
Detraction then by spite is borne too far,
And represents men warse than what they are.
Come then, Impartial Satire, fill the stage
With fools of ilka station, sex, and age;
Point out the folly, hide the person's name,
Since obduration follows public shame:
Silent conviction calmly can reform,
While open scandal rages to a storm.

Proceed; but, in the list, poor things forbear,
Who only in the human form appear,
Scarce animated with thaTheav'nly fire
Which makes the soul with boundless thoughts aspire:
Such move our pity — nature is to blame;
'Tis fools, in some things wise, that satire claim;
Such as Nugator — mark his solemn mien,
Stay'd are his features, scarcely move his een,
Which deep beneath his knotted eye-brows sink,
And he appears, as ane wad guess, to think:
Even sae he does, and can exactly shaw
How many beans make five, take three awa:
Deep read in Latin folios four inch thick,
He probes your crabit points into the quick;
Delights in dubious things to give advice,
Admires your judgment, if you think him wise;
And stiffly stands by whaThe anes thought right,
Altho' oppos'd with reason's clearest light:
On him ilk argument is thrown away,
Speak what you will, he tents not what you say;
He hears himsell, and currently runs o'er
All on the subjecThe has said before;
'Till glad to ease his jaws and tired tongue,
Th' opponent rests; — Nugator thinks him dung.
Thou solemn trifler! ken thou art despis'd,
Thy stiff pretence to wisdom naething priz'd,
By sic as can their notions fause decline,
When truth darts on them with convicting shine.
How hateful 's dull opinion, prop'd with words
That nought to any ane of sense affords,
But tiresome jargon! — Learn to laugh, at least,
That part of what thou says may pass for jest.

Now turn your eye to smooth Chicander next,
In whom good sense seems with good humour mixt;
But only seems: — for envy, malice, guile,
And sic base vices, crowd behind his smile;
Nor can his thoughts beyond mean quirks extend,
He thinks a trick nae crime that gains his end:
A crime! no, 'tis his brag; he names it wit,
And triumphs o'er a better man he 's bit,
Think shame, Chicander, of your creeping slights,
True wisdom in sincerity delights;
The sumphish mob, of penetration shawl,
May gape and ferly at your cunning saul,
And make ye fancy that there is desert
In thus employing a' your sneaking art;
But do not think that men of clearer sense
Will e'er admit of sic a vile pretence,
To that which dignifies the human mind,
And acts in honour with the bright and blind.

Reverse of this fause face, observe yon youth,
A strict plain-dealer, aft o'er-stretching truth;
Severely sour, he 's ready to reprove
The least wrang step in those who have his love;
Yet what 's of worth in them he over-rates;
But, much they 're to be pitied whom he hates:
Here his mistake, his weakest side appears,
When he a character in pieces tears,
He gives nae quarter, nor to great or sma',
Even beauty guards in vain, he lays at a'.
This humour, aften flowing o'er due bounds,
Too deeply mony a reputation wounds;
For which he 's hated by the suffering crowd,
Who jointly 'gree to rail at him aloud,
And as much shun his sight and bitter tongue,
As they wad do a wasp that had them stung.
Censorious! learn sometimes at faults to wink,
The wisest ever speak less than they think:
Tho' thus superior judgment you may vaunt,
Yet this proud wormwood show o't speaks a want;
A want in which your folly will be seen,
'Till you increase in wit, and have less spleen.

Make way there, when a mortal god appears!
Why do ye laugh? — king Midas wore sic ears.
How wise he looks! — Well, wad he never speak,
People wad think him neither dull nor weak:
But ah! he fancies, 'cause he 's chos'n a tool,
That a furr'd gown can free him frae the fool;
StraighThe with paughty mien and lordly glooms,
A vile affected air, not his, assumes;
Stawks stiffly by when better men salute,
Discovering less of senator than brute.
Yet is there e'er a wiser man than he? —
Speer at himsell; and, if he will be free,
He 'll tell you, nane. — Will judges tell a lie?

But let him pass, and with a smile observe
Yon tatter'd shadow, amaist like to starve;
And yeThe struts, proud of his vast engine:
He is an author, writes exquisite fine;
Sae fine, in faith, that every vulgar head
Cannot conceive his meaning while they read.
He hates the world for this: with bitter rage,
He damns the stupid dullness of the age.
The printer is unpaid: booksellers swear
Ten copies will not sell in ten lang year;
And wad not that sair fret a learned mind,
To see those shou'd be patrons prove sae blind,
Not to approve of what cost meikle pains,
Neglect of bus'ness, sleep, and waste of brains?
And a' for nought but to be vilely us'd,
As pages are whilk buyers have refus'd.
Ah! fellow-lab'rers for the press, take heed,
And force nae same that way, if ye wad speed:
Mankind must be, we hae na other judge,
And if they are displeas'd, why should we grudge?
If happily you gain them to your side,
Then baldly mount your Pegasus and ride:
Value yoursell what only they desire;
What does not take, commit it to the fire.

Next him a penman, with a bluffer air,
Stands 'tween his twa best friends that lull his care,
Nam'd " Money in baith Pouches; " — with three lines,
Yclept a bill, he digs the Indian mines;
Jobs, changes, lends, extorses, cheats, and grips,
And no ae turn of gainfu' us'ry slips,
'Till he has won, by wise pretence and snell,
As meikle as may drive his bairns to hell,
His ain lang hame. — This sucker thinks nane wise,
But him that can to immense riches rise:
Lear, honour, virtue, and sic heavenly beams,
To him appear but idle airy dreams,
Not fit for men of business to mind,
That are for great and golden ends design'd.
Send for him, de'el! — 'Till then, good men, take care
To keep at distance frae his hook and snare;
He has nae rewth, if coin comes in the play,
He 'll draw, indorse, and horn to death his prey.

Not thus Macsomno pushes after praise,
He treats, and is admir'd in all he says:
Cash well bestow'd, which helps a man to pass
For wise in his ain thinking, that 's an ass:
Poor skybalds! curs'd with more of wealth than wit,
Blyth of a gratis gaudeamus, sit
With look attentive, ready all about,
To give the laugh when his dull joke comes out:
Accustom'd with his conversation bright,
They ken, as by a watch, the time of night,
When he 's at sic a point of sic a tale,
Which to these parasites grows never stale,
Tho' often tald. Like Lethe's stream, his wine
Makes them forget — thaThe again may shine.
" Fy! satire, ha'd thy tongue, thou art too rude
" To jeer a character that seems sae good:
" This man may beet the poet bare and clung,
" That rarely has a shilling in his spung. "
Hang him! there 's patrons of good sense enew,
To cherish and support the tuneful few,
Whose penetration 's never at a loss
In right distinguishing of gold frae dross:
Employ me freely if thou 'd laurels wear,
Experience may teach thee not to fear.

But see anither gives mair cause for dread,
He thraws his gab, and afThe shakes his head;
A slave to self-conceit and a' that 's sour,
T' acknowledge merit is not in his pow'r.
He reads, but ne'er the author's beauties minds,
And has nae pleasure where nae faults he finds.
Much-hated gowk! tho' vers'd in kittle rules,
To be a wirrykow to writing fools.
They sell the greatest, only learn'd in words,
Which naithing but the cauld and dry affords;
Dar'st thou of a' thy betters slighting speak,
That have nae grutten sae meikle, learning Greek?
Thy depth 's well kend, and a' thy silly vaunts,
To ilka solid thinker shaw thy wants.
Thus cowards deave us with a thousand lies
Of dang'rous vict'ries they have won in pleas:
Sae shallow upstarts strive with care to hide
Their mean descent, which inly gnaws their pride,
By counting kin, and making endless faird,
If that their grany's uncle's oye's a laird.
Scarcrows! hen-hearted! and ye meanly born!
Appear just what you are, and dread nae scorn;
Labour in words, keep hale your skins: why not?
Do well, and nane your laigh extract will quote,
But to your praise. Walk aff, till we remark

Yon little coxy wight that makes sic wark
With tongue and gait: how crously does he stand!
His taes turn'd out, on his left haunch his hand;
The right beats time a hundred various ways,
And points the pathos out in a' he says.
Wow! buThe 's proud, when amaist out of breath,
At ony time he clatters a man to death,
Wha is oblig'd sometimes t' attend the sot,
To save the captiv'd buttons of his coat,
Thou dinsome jackdaw! ken 'tis a disease
This palsy in thy tongue that ne'er can please:
Of a' mankind, thou art the maist mistane,
To think this way the name of sage to gain.

Now, lest I should be thought too much like thee,
I 'll give my readers leave to breathe a wee;
If they allow my picture 's like the life,
Mae shall be drawn; originals are rife.