A few lines may suffice, in evidence.

The couplet about the vicar's sermons makes one sure that for the moment Scott was good-humouredly copying one foible at least of his original:-- "Approach and through the unlatticed window peep.
Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep; Sunk 'mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are done.
Loaded and primed, and prompt for desperate hand, Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand, While round the hut are in disorder laid The tools and booty of his lawless trade; For force or fraud, resistance or escape The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the crape; His pilfered powder in yon nook he hoards, And the filched lead the church's roof affords-- (Hence shall the rector's congregation fret, That while his sermon's dry, his walls are wet.) The fish-spear barbed, the sweeping net are there, Dog-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins of hare, Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare.
Bartered for game from chase or warren won, Yon cask holds moonlight,[5] seen when moon was none; And late-snatched spoils lie stowed in hutch apart, To wait the associate higgler's evening cart." Happily for Scott's fame, and for the world's delight, he did not long pursue the unprofitable task of copying other men.

_Rokeby_ appeared, was coldly received, and then Scott turned his thoughts to fiction in prose, came upon his long-lost fragment of _Waverley_ and the need of conciliating the poetic taste of the day was at an end for ever.

But his affection for Crabbe never waned.

In his earlier novels there was no contemporary poet he more often quoted as headings for his chapters--and it was Crabbe's _Borough_ to which he listened with unfailing delight twenty years later, in the last sad hours of his decay.
FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: A cant term for smuggled spirits.].