LABRADOR: 

 A 



POETICAL EPISTLE » 



Well may you, Charles, astonishment express 

 To see my letter in poetic dress. 

 How can he, you will say, in Nature's spight, 

 Who ne'er found time to read, attempt to write? 

 Write verses too! and words to measure cut! 

 Unskill'd in cutting, save at Loin or Butt.* 

 No matter how; a project's in my head, 

 To write more verses, than I've ever read. 

 The whim has seiz'd me: now you know my scheme; 

 And my lov'd Labrador shall be my Theme. 



The Winter o'er, the Birds their voices tune, 

 To welcome in the genial month of June. 

 Love crouds with feather'd tribes each little Isle, 

 And all around kind Nature seems to smile. 

 Now Geese and Ducks and nameless numbers more, 

 In social flocks, are found on every shore. 

 Their eggs to seek, we rove from Isle to Isle, 

 Eager to find, and bear away the spoil: 

 These in abundance, every hand picks up. 

 And when our toil is o'er, on these we sup. 



The Furrier now the Fox and Mart gives o'er, 

 To trap the Otter rubbing on the shore. 

 The Rein-deer stag, now lean and timid grown, 

 In dark recesses, silent feeds alone. 

 The Willow's tender leaf, and various plants, 

 He fails to find not in those dreary haunts. 

 His fearful Hind, now shuns the Wolf's dire wiles, 

 And seeka her safety on the neighb'ring Isles; 



' See page 315 for an account of the writinK of this poom. 



• In his younger daya, the Author had a remarkable good appetite. 



303 



