Not long liv'd the Baron; and none fince that time For chronicles tell, that, by order fublime, At midnight four times in each year does her sprite, While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, A BALLAD. BY ROBERT BURNS. Tune, Humours of Glen. HEIR groves o' fweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming fummers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, TH With the burn ftealing under the lang yellow broom: Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly unfeen; Their fweet-fcented woodlands that fkirt the proud palace, He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains, Save love's willing fetters,―the chains of his Jean. MODERN NOVELS. (Infcribed to the Author of the Monk) OM, Dick, and Will, were little known to fame TOM, No Matter : Held a debate!-On politics, no doubt. Nor who was out. All their discourse on modern poets ran, Of those who could and those who could not write. It cost them very little pains To count the modern poets who had brains; But to caft up the scores of men any, Buoy'd on a fea of fancy, genius rifes, At many an author as they overhaul'd him, Blown up with puff and paragraph; But if they found him bad, they maul'd him. On modern dramatifts they fell Pounce vi& armis-tooth and nail-pell mell. They call'd them carpenters and smugglers; Filching their incidents from ancient hoards, And knocking them together like deal boards; and jugglers Who all the town's attention fix By making-Plays? No, fir, by making tricks. The verfifiers-Heav'n defend us! They play'd the very devil with their rhimes: Plac'd modifh verfe, which they call'd stuff, To fay the truth, a modern verfifier Clap'd check by jowl With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior, Would look damn'd fcurvily, upon my foul! For novels, fhould their critic hints fucceed, The Miffes might fare better when they took 'em; But it would fare extremely ill indeed With gentle Meffieurs Bell and Hookham. "A novel now," fays Will," is nothing more "A diftant hovel "Clanking of chains-a gallery-a light- "Scourge me fuch catch-penny inditers “Ổut of the land," quoth Will, rousing in paffion, Will rofe in declamation, "'Tis the bane," "With vice, romance, luft, terror, pain, "Were I a paftor in a boarding-school, "I'd quafh fuch books in toto; if I cou'dn't, But Thomas drily faid, for he was cool, "You give the novels a fair wipe; "But still, "While you, my friend, with paffion run 'em down, "The reafon's plain," proceeded Dick, "And fimply thus: "Taste overglutted, grows deprav'd and fick, "And needs a ftimulus. "Time was, when honest Fielding writ Tales full of nature, character, and wit, "Were reckon❜d moft delicious, boil'd and roaft; "And want that ftrong provocative,-a ghoft; "And put the cafe a little clearer :- "By too much ufe; "And fink into a state of relaxation "With long abuse. "Now a romance with reading-debauchees, "Roufes their torpid pow'rs when nature fails "And all these legendary tales "Are to a worn-out mind-cantharides. Ff " But "But how to cure the evil? You will fay, "Lay bare the weak farrago of those men "As if the night-mare rode upon "And troubl'd all their ink with hideous dreams. "For instance, when a folemn ghoft stalks in, LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN : — A Tak. From the fame. 'HO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, WH Has feen Lodgings to Let ftare him full in the face. Some are good, and let dearly; while fome, 'tis well known, Derry down. Will Waddle, whofe temper was studious and lonely, He enter'd his rooms; and to bed he retreated, Next night 'twas the fame;-and the next;-and the next; In fix months his acquaintance began much to doubt him; "I have loft many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea.” The Doctor look'd wife :" a flow fever," he said: Prefcrib'd fudorifics, and going to bed.- Sudorifics in bed," exclaim'd Will," are humbugs;" Will kick'd out the Doctor :-but when ill indeed, . I'm the fat fiugle gentleman, fix months ago?” "Look'e "Look'e, landlord, I think," argu'd Will, with a grin, "The oven!!!" fays Will. Says the hoft, why this paffion? Why fo crufty, good Sir?" "Zounds!" cries Will in a taking, Will paid for his rooms. Cry'd the hoft, with a fneer, 'Friend, we can't well agree'" yet no quarrel," Will faid; ON THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY. A Poem by the Dean of Waterford, which obtained the late Chancellor's Prize at Oxford fome Years fince; the Original never appeared in Print but in an interpolated State.—From the Ġentleman's Magazine. E fouls illuftrious, who, in days of yore, YE With peerless might the British target bore; And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair; *Thefe lines were written foon after an installation at Windfor Ff2 |