An Epistle to a Friend ("I said I'd write, but did not dream")

I said I'd write, but did not dream,
Of loosing by the way—my theme;
I've been this half hour in a pother,
To think, how I shou'd find another,
For all I'd gather'd in my head,
I found, alas, this morning fled;
I scratch'd my head, implor'd the Muse,
But found it all of little use;
Sometimes a thought wou'd strike my pate,
About the Troglodites of state,
A savage kind of folks, you know,
That liv'd five hundred years ago,
Much alike, in all their ways,
To those we have in our days;
But bright-ey'd Caution stopp'd my hand,
And gave me then to understand,
The danger that attends the task,
Shou'd we but try, to strip the mask,
From off some false, fair-seeming knave,
Who's ev'ry thought is to enslave
His king and country ev'ry hour,
For ev'ry knave is fond of power:
A little fellow never ought
To tell a great one of his fault,
For very like, for all his pains,
The other may knock out his brains,
Who having little of his own,
He's anxious for another's grown.
I'll leave such themes, to such I'feck,
That neither care for head or neck,
Who run full tilt, thro' muck and mire,
To set themselves, and world on fire.

I hear you say,—what, can't you find,
Amongst the race of human kind,
Another subject to engage,
And live in this abandon'd age!
No worthy character distress'd,
By some purse proud knave depress'd;
No worthy friend fall in your way,
To elevate your tardy lay?
Why yes, I have, I own it too,
Memory brings it to my view;
Whene'er of friendship I wou'd talk,
I'm sure to meet you in my walk.