ROB. FERGUSSON'S LAST WILL by ROBERT FERGUSSON

While sober folks, in humble prose,
Estate, and goods, and gear dispose,
A poet surely may disperse
His moveables in doggrel verse;
And fearing death my blood will fast chill,
I hereby constitute my last will.
Then wit ye me to have made o'er
To Nature my poetic lore;
To her I give and grant the freedom
Of paying to the bards who need 'em
As many talents as she gave,
When I became the Muses' slave.
Thanks to the gods, who made me poor!
No lukewarm friends molest my door,
Who always shew a busy care
For being legatee or heir:
Of this stamp none will ever follow
The youth that's favour'd by Apollo.
But to those few who know my case,
Nor thought a @3poet's friend@1 disgrace,
The following trifles I bequeath,
And leave them with my kindest breath;
Nor will I burden them with payment
Of debts incurr'd, or coffin raiment,
As yet 'twas never my intent
To pass an Irish compliment.
To Jamie Rae, who oft @3jocosus@1
With me partook of cheering doses,
I leave my snuff-box, to regale
His senses after drowsy meal,
And wake remembrance of a friend
Who lov'd him to his latter end:
But if this pledge should make him sorry,
And argue like @3memento mori@1,
He may bequeath't mong 'stubborn fellows,
To all the finer feelings callous,
Who think that parting breath's a sneeze
To set sensations all at ease.
To Oliphant, my friend, I legate
Those scrolls poetic which he may get,
With ample freedom to correct
Those writs I ne'er could retrospect,
With power to him and his succession
To print and sell a new impression:
And here I fix on Ossian's Head,
A domicile for Doric reed,
With as much power @3ad Musoe bona@1,
As I @3in propria persona@1.
To Hamilton I give the task
Outstanding debts to crave and ask;
And that my Muse he may not dub ill,
For loading him with so much trouble,
My debts I leave him @3singulatim@1,
As they are mostly @3desperatim@1.
To Woods, whose genius can provoke
His passions to the bowl or sock,
For love to thee, and to the nine,
Be my immortal Shakespeare thine:
Here may you thro' the alleys turn,
Where Falstaff laughs, where heroes mourn,
And boldly catch the glowing fire
That dwells in raptures on his lyre.
Now at my dirge (if dirge there be!),
Due to the Muse and poetry,
Let Hutcheson attend, for none is
More fit to guide the ceremonies;
As I in health with him would often
This clay-built mansion wash and soften,
So let my friends with him partake
The gen'rous wine at dirge or wake -
And I consent to registration
Of this my will for preservation,
That patent it may be, and seen
In Walter's Weekly Magazine.
Witness whereof, these presents wrote are
By William Blair, the public notar,
And, for the tremor of my hand,
Are sign'd by him at my command.

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