A Prologue, Spoke by Mr Diggs, at Edinburgh, to the Muse of Ossian

To form a little work of nervous merit,
To give the sleepy stage a nobler spirit;
To touch a sacred muse, and not defile her,
This was the plan propos'd by our compiler.

Tho' caution told him—the presumption's glaring!
Dauntless, he cry'd—"It is but nobly daring!
"Can we peruse a pathos more than Attic,
"Nor wish the golden treasure stamp'd dramatic!
"Here are no lines—in measur'd pace, that trip it,
"No modern scenes—so lifeless!—so insipid!
"Wrought by a muse—(no sacred fire debarr'd her)
"'Tis nervous!—noble!—'tis true northern ardour!

"Methinks I hear the Grecian bards exclaiming,
"(The Grecian bards no longer worth the naming)
"In song, the northern tribes so far surpass us,
"One of their highland hills they'll call Parnassus;
"And from the sacred mount, decrees shall follow,
"That Ossian was himself—the true Apollo."

Spite of this flash—This high poetic fury,
He trembles for the verdict of his jury:
As from his text he ne'er presum'd to wander,
But gives the native Ossian to your candour:
To an impartial judgment we submit him,
Condemn—or rather (if you can) acquit him.