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Writtri in an Enuelope, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN

GROSE. (261)
KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose ?

Igo and ago,
If he's amang his friends or foes ?

Iram, coram, dago.
Is he south or is he north?

Igo and ago,
Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.
Is he slain by Highlan' bodies?

Igo and ago,
And eaten like a wether haggis ?

Iram, coram, dago.
Is he to Abram's bosom gane?

ago, Or haudin Sarah by the wame?

Iram, coram, dago.
Where'er he be, the Lord be near him;

Igo and ago,
As for the deil, he daurna steer him.

Iram, coram, dago.
But please transmit the enclosed letter,

Igo and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor,

Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye hae auld stanes in store,

Igo and ago,
The very stanes that Adam bore,

Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye get in glad possession,

Igo and ago,
The coins o' Satan's coronation !

Iram, coram, dago.

Igo and

Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire !
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
And save the honour o' the nation ?
They and be d- d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ?
Far less to riches, pow'r or freedom.
But what your lordship likes to gie them ?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear !
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside atender mercies,
And tiri the hallions to the birses
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails !
And rot the dyvors i' the jails !
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
And if the wives and dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts
Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks and geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And
gar

the tattered gypsies' pack
Vi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords

ye

shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
"Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate-
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ;
And till ye come--Your humble servant,

BEELZEBUB. June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.

Address of Berlirbnb TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND

SOCIETY. (262) Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, May twin auld Scotland o' a life She likes-as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight; I doubt na! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water; Then up amang thrae lakes and seas They'll mak what rules and laws they please; Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin'; Some Washington again may head them, Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, Till God knows what may be effected When by such heads and hearts directed

Lament of Mari Onern nf śrnts,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheet o' daises white

Out o'er the grassy lee :
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Old Loda, (264) still rueing the arm of Aloft on dewy wing ;

Fingal,

[hall The merle, in his noontide bow'r

The god of the bottle sends down from his Makes woodland echoes ring :

“This whistle's your challenge to Scotland The mavis wild wi' mony a note,

get o'er,

[me more !" Sings drowsy day to rest :

And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

[fell; Now blooms the lily by the bank,

What champions ventur’d, what champions The primrose down the brae;

The son of great Loda was conqueror still, The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the May rove their sweets amang;

Scaur,

(war, But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland,

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in Maun lie in prison strang!

He drank his poor godship as deep as the

sea. I was the Queen o' bonnie France,

No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has As blythe lay down at e'en :

gain'd,

[remained; And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,

Which now in his house has for ages And mony a traitor there;

Till three noble chieftains, and all of his Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

blood, And never-ending care.

The jovial contest again have renew'd. But as for thee, thou false woman!

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear My sister and my fae,

as flaw;

[law; Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and That thro' thy soul shall gae!

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old The weeping blood in woman's breast

(wines. Was never known to thee;

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth My son! my son! may kinder stars

as oil, Upon thy fortune shine!

Desiring Glenriddle to yield up the spoil ;

Or else he would muster the heads of the And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine!

clan,

[the man. God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

And once more, in claret, try which was Or turn their hearts to thee:

"By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,

replies, Remember him for me!

Before I surrender so glorious a prize, Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie Nae mair light up the morn!

More (265),

[times o'er." Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

And bumper his horn with him twenty Wave o'er the yellow corn!

Sir Rohert, a soldier, no speech would And in the narrow house o' death

pretend,

(or his friend, Let winter round me rave:

But he ne'er turned his back on his foe And the next flow'rs that deck the spring

Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the Bloom on my peaceful grave!

field,

[yield. And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

[care; The Whistle. (263).

So noted for drowning of sorrow and

But for wine and for welcome not more I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

known to fame

[lovely dame. I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, Was brought to the court of our good | Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet Scottish king,

[shall ring. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And long with this whistle all Scotland | And tell future ages the feats of the day ;

coins;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; And wish'd that Parnassus à vineyard had Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery been.

shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle

idle loves, The dinner being o'er the claret they ply,

Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more! And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; so set,

[they were wet. Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes And the bands grew the tighter the more

stor'd; Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, Bright Phæbus ne'er witness'd so joyous a

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. core,

[forlorn, Princes, whose cumb’rous pride was all their And vow'd that to leave them he was quite

worth, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, night,

[tight,

And not a muse in honest grief bewail? When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the Wesaw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,

And virtue's light, that beams beyond the And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor

spheres; did.

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. sage.

[wage;

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, No longer the warfare, ingodly, would

Thatheart howsunk, a prey togrief and care; A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine!

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; He left the foul business to folks less divine.

So from it ravish'd, leaves ir bleak and bare.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with fate and quart-bumpers
contend?

Lament
Though fate said-a hero shall perish in light;
So up rose bright Phæbus—and down fell

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN (266.) the knight.

TIe wind blew hollow frae the hills, Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in

By tits the sun's departing beain drink:

(sink;

Look'd on the fading yellow woods Craigdarroch, thou'ltsoar when creation shall

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, Come-one bottle more—and have at the

Laden with years and meikle pain, sublime!

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Thy line, that have struggled for freedom Whom death had all untimely ta'en. with Bruce,

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with So thine be the laurel and mine be the bay;

years; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god

His locks were bleached white with time, of day!”

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ;
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,

And as he tun'd his doleful sang,

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
Glrgo

To echo bore the notes alang.

“Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

The reliques of the vernal quire !
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, The honours of the aged year!
Asthat which laid th'accomplished Burnet low. A few short months, and glad and gay,
Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? But nought in all revolving time

Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;
In richest ore the brightest jewel set !

Can gladness bring again to me.
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is I am a bending aged tree,
known.

That long has stood the wind and rain;

ON MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO,

THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM.

185

SENT TO

SIR

OF FINTRY.

But now has come a cruel blast,

Lines And my last hold of earth is gane :

JOHN WHITEFORD, BART., 08 Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,

WHITEFORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm,

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought And ithers plant them in my room.

earthly fear'st, I've seen sae mony changefu' years,

To thee this votive offering I impart, On earth I ain a stranger grown;

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. I wander in the ways of men,

The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, lov'd: Alike unknowing and unknown:

His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd; Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, I bear alane my lade o' care,

And tread the dreary path to that dark For silent, low, on beds of dust,

world unknown.
Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
And last (the sum of a' my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;

Thirù Epistle to Jtlr. Graham, The flow'r amang our barons bold,

His country's pride! his country's stayIn weary being now I pine,

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a les, For a' the life of life is dead,

About to beg a pass for leave to beg : And hope has left my aged ken,

Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, On forward wing for ever fled.

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest); Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail?

(tale), The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her

And hear him curse the light he first Then sleep in silence evernair!

survey'd,

(trade? And thou, my last, best, only friend,

And doubly curse the luckless rhyming , That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign; Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkest Of thy caprice maternal I complain. gloom.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round;

ground:

Thou givs't the ass his hide, the snail his Though oft I turn’d the wistful eye,

shell, Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me like the morning sun,

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his That melts the fogs in limpid air,

Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour,

In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power; The friendless bard and rustic song

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure; Became alike thy fostering care.

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Oh! why has worth so short a date?

Toads with their poison, doctors with their While villains ripen grey with time;

(snug; Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, The priest and hedgehog in their robes are

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Why did I live to see that day?

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and A day to me so full of woe!Oh! had I met the mortal shaft

But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard, Which laid my benefactor low!

To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the

Bard!
The bridegroom may forget the bride,
Was made his wedded wife yestreen:

A thing unteachable in world's skill,

And half an idiot, too, more helpless still ; The monarch may forget the crown

No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; That on his head an hour has been;

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; The mother may forget the child

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;

worn, But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
And a' that thou hast done for me!"

No nerves olfact’ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur

i

[cell ;

drug,

darts ;

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry And left us darkling in a world of tears): side :

Oh! hear my ardent,grateful, selfish, pray'r!-Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; Critics !-appallid I venture on the name,

And bright in cloudless skies his sun go

down; Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:

May bliss domestic smooth his private path,

[(267) Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes !

Give energy to life, and soothe his latest He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

breath,

[death!

With many a filial tear circling the bed His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockhead's daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,

Funrth Epistle to Plr. Graham, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig OF FINTRY ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. (268) must wear:

[strife, I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal | A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; The hapless poet flounders on through life; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, And all the tribute of my heart returns, And fled each muse that glorious once For boons accorded, goodness ever new, inspired,

The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. Low suik in squalid, unprotected age, Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless If aught that giver from my mind etface,

And all ye many sparkling stars of night; critic's rage!

If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ;
So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- Then roll to me, alang your wandering spheres,

Only to number out a villain's years !
ceased,
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast :
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone,

The Rights nf Woman,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son,
Oh dulness! portion of the truly blest!

[NOV. 26, 1792.]
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty
Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams.

things, If mantling high she fills the golden cup,

The fate of empires and the fall of kings; With sober selfish ease they sip it

While quacks of state must each produce

up: Conscious the bounteous meed they well

his plan, deserve,

And even children lisp the Rights of Man They only wonder “some folks” do not starve. Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. And thro' disastrous night they darkling The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, grope,

Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, And just conclude that “ fools are fortune's Unless your shelter ward th’impending care.'

storm. So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,

Our second right--but needless here, is Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

caution, Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck Each man of sense has it so full before him,

To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;

He'd die before he'd wrong it'tis decorum. In equanimity they never dwell,

There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, By turns in svaring heav'n, or vaulted hell.

A time, when rough rude man had naughty I dread thee fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's father's fear! Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a Already one strong hold of hope is lost,

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS

FONTENELLE OY HER BENEFIT NIGHT.

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brain;

riot, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet.

ways;

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