The Author’s Will Poem by Robert Anderson

Great Bards, in all ages, all countries, we find,
Whose works now delight and enlighten mankind,
Were scorn'd by dame fortune, and ofttimes despis'd;
When the foes of each country by monarch's were priz'd.
The prince of all Poets, old Homer, was poor,
And his ballads, unequall'd, would sing at each door;
Who the sigh can suppress, that the works ere peruse,
Of Cervantes, who wretched, the world cou'd amuse?
And while Albion the fate of her Dryden still mourns,
Old Scotia may blush o'er the tomb of poor Burns.
If distress mark'd the favourite sons of the Nine,
Let not scribblers like me at the world e'er repine;
But be thankful for favours we ne'er can repay,
And smile at life's ills that must soon fade away.
O spare a poor rhymer, ye friends ever dear,
Nor be to the man or his lays too severe;
Dear brethren! to whom all his failings are known,
Rail not at his foibles, but heed well your own:
For, if pleasure's bowl he was anxious to seize,
Remember his motto--``Still willing to please!''
An itch after scribbling was long his delight,
And if virtue dictated, you'll own he did right:
Spider--like, if he spun his weak cobwebs in vain,
And the verse gave not pleasure, it seldom gave pain.

Since life's an uncertainty, for relaxation,
He gladly wou'd cancel each light obligation;
For dunces, like princes, an hour cannot reckon,
But both must obey, when death pleases to beckon:
That leveller alike heeds the one's harmless rhymes,
And the other's dominions, his pow'r and his crimes.

First.--A fond father's Portrait, I leave to that friend,
Who to th' wants of his parents will swear to attend;
With a Stick, the firm pledge of my father's affection,
On which I oft muse with a pleasing reflection,
May he use it, when age bids his body decline,
And the son makes his parent as happy as mine!

Next, my Flute, that on Eden's green banks I oft play'
To amuse a dear friend, or a fair artless maid,
Whose wild notes have sooth'd me, and check'd many a sigh,
When on follies reflecting, a tear dimm'd my eye,
I leave to ---, a youth to my mind;
A gift of esteem, to the friend of mankind:
May its tones afford pleasure, and shield him from strife,
And virtue and harmony guide him thro' life!

All my M S. trifles I freely bequeath,
To Crito, for whom oft the Muse forms a wreath:
If I'm void of invention, or poetic spirit,
The touch of my friend changes nonsense to merit;
And as he from the censure of sland'rers can save me,
I leave him the neat Silver Pen, --- gave me,
With this simple request, that, with it, when I'm gone,
He the simple inscription will write for my stone;
Not forgetting to warn young and old, passing by,
To repent of their sins, and make ready to die.
'Tis my pray'r he may long by the Muse be inspir'd,
Whose name will be honour'd, while merit's admir'd;
For no arts but his own have promoted his fame,
Nor a verse has he written that virtue can blame.

My Selection of Songs I bequeath to F. J---e,
Some the musings of genius, some ravings of folly;
He may print them, or burn them, as best it will suit him,
Ev'n call mine his own, if he does, few will doubt him.

To Miss ---, the best female I know,
Whose friendship beguiles the pain'd bosom of woe,
If she'll deign to accept, every Picture and Hook;
I bequeath, with my Music by Thomson or Hook;
A Portfolio of Fragments, and Letters, poor treasure,
Strange mixture of nonsense, love, friendship, and pleasure:
With some she may rub off the rust of dull care,
In others view passions that lead to despair.

From the best, to the vainest, we scribblers may change,
'Tis the license of folly, with freedom to range;
To Miss ---, I leave, nor hope she'll refuse them,
A Volume of Words, with directions to use them:
The whole by Sam Johnson, who form'd the great rules,
That preserve common sense, spite of women and fools.

To Carlyle, whose friendship's a treasure to me,
I leave this warm wish, he long happy may be,
With him, oft at twilight in Summer I've stray'd,
And heard the last song of the thrush in the glade,
While charm'd with the landscapes, to him ever dear,
Whose pencil pourtray'd every change of the year;
Or trac'd nature's beauties, as homeward we trod,
Whose scenes, ever varied, the mind leads to God.
With him, I in Winter have shar'd each delight,
That pleasure cou'd yield, and beguile the long night;
Now musing o'er authors, each sense to improve;
Now piping soft airs, dear to friendship and love.
May the Muse ne'er forsake him, is still my fond pray'r,
Nor his face e'er be furrow'd with wrinkles of care!

Dull rhymers, unletter'd, who try ev'ry art,
To touch a weak head, or an unfeeling heart,
Who fain up the heights of Parnassus would hobble,
Like me, paid with sneers and contempt for your trouble;
I leave you this wish, ne'er to scribble in vain,
Rather labour, in time, useful knowledge to gain.

To ---, my companion in rambles nocturnal,
I leave, just by way of memento, my Journal;
And beg he'll not fail the contents to peruse,
Whether serious reflections, or scraps from the Muse:
By the first, he his own imperfections may see,
By the last, he may pity a rhymer, like me.

I leave --- my Spectacles, thro' which he'll view
His magnified foibles; wou'd mine were as few!
So gentle's his heart, ev'n a child may deceive him;
So true is his tongue, ev'n his foes may believe him:
His greatest fault is, goodness keeps him in fetters,
And he lives an example to slaves call'd his betters.

I leave to --- a Locket, with Hair,
Cut off ere my temples where shorn by dull care:
May she wear this small Pledge of fond love near her heart,
Till summon'd at length from her friends to depart!

My Clothing, thread--bare, I bequeat to the poor,
Who, comfortless, many keen ills must endure;
And if on life's journey their troubles increase,
May hope lead their minds to the mansion of peace!

Now, to God the Creator, thro' whom draw breath,
Thro' whose promise the sinner may triumph o'er death,
I bequeath my poor Soul, and his mercy I crave,
For reflection wounds deep, as we bend to the grave!
And its Case, which none e'er thought the finest of forms,
I leave, a spare feast to its kindred, the worms.

My harp, tuneless grown, I now hang on the willow;
And in peace with the world, hope for rest on my pillow.
Sign'd, truly, October, the twenty sixth day,
In the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred,