Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's benefit

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,

How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,

Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?

For comedy abroad he need na toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil;

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece

To gather matter for a serious piece;

There's themes enow in Caledonian story,

Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?

Where are the Muses fled that could produce

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;

And after monie a bloody, deathless doing,

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?

O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene,

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;

A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,

As able and as cruel as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,

But Douglases were heroes every age:

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,

A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,

Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds.

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land

Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand;

Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,

And where ye justly can commend, commend them;

And aiblins when they winna stand the test,

Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best!

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution

Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,

Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,

And warsle time an' lay him on his back!

For us and for our stage should onie spier,

"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?'

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,

We hae the honour to belong to you!

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,

But like good mithers, shore before ye strike—

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,

For a' the patronage and meikle kindness

We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks:

God help us! we're but poor—ye'se get but thanks.