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Writtrn in an Envelope, Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire ! ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, GROSE. (261)
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose ?
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons Igo and ago,
To bring them to a right repentance, If he's amang his friends or foes ?
To cowe the rebel generation,
And save the honour o' the nation ? Is he south or is he north?
They and be d d ! what right hae they Igo and ago,
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! And eaten like a wether haggis ?
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; Iram, coram, dago.
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
I camna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tiri the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, Where'er he be, the Lord be near him;
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit; Igo and ago,
But smash them! crash them a' to spails! As for the deil, he daurna steer him.
And rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Let wark and hunger mak them sober! Igo and ago,
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, Which will oblige your humble debtor, Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd! Iram, coram, dago.
And if the wives and dirty brats
E'en thirger 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, Igo and ago,
And gar the tattered gypsies' pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
Or if you on your station tarrow, LONG life, my Lord, and health be yours,
Between Almagro and Pizarro, Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
And till ye come-Your humble servant, Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
BEELZEBUB. May twin auld Scotland o' a life
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. She likes—as lambkins like a knife. Faith, you and A- s were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight; Lament of flarn Onrrn of õrats, I doubt na! they wad bid nae better Than let them ance out owre the water;
ON THE APPROACII OF SPRING. Then up amang thrae lakes and seas Now Nature hangs her mantle green They'll mak what rules and laws they please; ! On every blooming tree, Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, And spreads her sheet o' daises white May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin': Out o'er the grassy lee : Some Washington again may head them, Now Phæbus cheers the crystal streams, Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, And glads the azure skies; Till God knows what may be effected But nought can glad the weary wight When by such heads and hearts directed ! That fast in durance lies.
183 Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 1 Old Loda, (264) still rueing the arm of Aloft on dewy wing;
[hallThe 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,
[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;
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the May rove their sweets amang;
(war, But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquerd in Maun lie in prison strang!
He drank his poor godship as deep as the 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 :
[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; 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
swines. Was never known to thee;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old Nor th' balin 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 ; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 1 Or else he would muster the heads of the That ne'er wad blink on mine!
(the man. God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
And once more, in claret, try which was Or turn their liearts 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!
[times o'er." Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds And bumper his horn with him twenty Wave o'er the yellow corn!
Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would And in the narrow house o death
for his friend, Let winter round me rave:
But he ne'er turned his back on his foeAnd the next flow'rs that deck the spring
Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the Bloom on my peaceful grave!
[yield. And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
scare; 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 | Th
id 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;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery been.
shore, The dinner being o'er the claret they ply,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more! 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 al 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! forsakeourearth, night,
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
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.
Lwagi | 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? Though fate said-a hero shall perish in light;
Lament So up rose bright Phæbus—and down fell FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN (266.) the knight.
The wind blew hollow frae the hills, Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in | By fits 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,
urish iinmortal 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 tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.
The reliques of the vernal quire!
Again ye'll charin the ear and e'e;
" But nought in all revolving time In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
Can gladness bring again to me. As by his noblest work the Godhead best is ( I am a bending aged tree, known.
That long has stood the wind and rain;
THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM.
185 But now has come a cruel blast,
Lines And my last hold of earth is gane:
SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, BART., OB Nae leaf o'mine shall greet the spring,
WHITEFORD, WITH THE FUREGOING POEM. Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, But I maun lie before the storm,
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,
Thirù Epistle to flr. Graham,
LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 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 ?
stale), The voice of woe and wild despair;
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her Awake! resound thy latest lay
And hear him curse the light he first Then sleep in silence evernair !
(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 ärom 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 spurus the In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round;
Thou givs't the ass his hide, the snail his Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,
scell; Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me like the morning sun,
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his
Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour, That melts the fogs in limpid air,
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!
darts ; 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,
A thing unteachable in world's skill, Was made his wedded wife yestreen:
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 :
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 1 (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 !-appall'd I venture on the name,
| And bright in cloudless skies his sun go Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of
| May bliss domestic smooth his private path,
[(267) Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes! |
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest
breath, He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.
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,
Fourth Epistle ta Flr. 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 sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light ! Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,
And all ye many sparkling stars of night; He heeds or feels no more the ruthless
If aught that giver from my mind efface, 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 !
The Rights of Woman,
AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS Oh dulness! portion of the truly blest!
FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT.
(NOV. 26, 1792.] Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er nadden 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 up: While quacks of state must each produce 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 herp 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' disast'rous 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
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,
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; Not such the workings of their moon-struck
Each man of sense has it so full before him, brain;
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,
ways; 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,
riot, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; | Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet.