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Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,

To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.

"Alas! I feel I am no actor here!"
'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,

By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest

care,

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more, I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;

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Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms, In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high,

And steal from me Maria's eye.
Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest
dress,

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press,
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war;
I see her face the first of Ireland's sons (277),
And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;
The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tartaned
lines

For other wars, where he a hero shines ;
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display,
That veni, vidi, vici, is his way;

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks,
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich
hulks;
[state
Though there, his heresies in church and
Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate:
Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
And dares the public like a noontide sun.
(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger,
The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger;
Whose spleen e'en worse than Buru's venom,
when

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,
And pours his vengeance in the buruing line,
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine,
The idiot strum of vanity bemused,
And even th' abuse of poesy abused :
Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse,
[stray'd?)

made

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or

A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my

woes,

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep! That straw where many a rogue has lain of

yore,

And vermin'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore. Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour;

Must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
And make a vast monopoly of hell?
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee

worse;

The vices also, must they club their curse? | Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls?
Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit?
Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true?
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn
And dare the war with all of woman born:
For who can write and speak as thou and I?
My periods that decyphering defy,
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers
all reply.

Sonnet,

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL of

GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794 (279) No more, ye warblers of the wood-no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul: [dant stole, Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verMore welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?

[friend! Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb

where Riddel lies!

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his

peer,

Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,

Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

Impromptu

ON MRS RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY. (280) OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd"What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day!

;

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,

Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.'

""Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.

Verses to Miss Graham
OF FINTRY. (281)

HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal
lives,
[join'd,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers
Accept the gift;—tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.
Or pity's notes in luxury of tears,
As modest want the tale of woe reveals
While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

The Vowels,

A TALE.

;

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong
The noisy domicile of pedant pride;
are plied,
Where ignorance her dark'ning vapour
throws,

And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows;
Upon a time, Sir A-be-ce the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,
His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai !
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The jostling tears ran down his honest face'
That name, that well-worn name, and all his

own,

Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne;
The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd
The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y?
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply :
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the
ground!

In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;

Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art;

So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his
sight.

Verses to John Rankine,

ANE day, as Death, that grusome carle,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad,
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad;
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles in a halter :
Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches,
"By G-, I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ane honest man,
To grace this d---d infernal clan."
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
“I— God!” quoth he, "I have it now,
There's just the man I want, i' faith!"
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

On Sensibility.

Address

SPOKEN BY 'MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT (282),

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than

ever,

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;

So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was

printed;

rhymes,

ever

And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of [times: "I know your bent-these are no laughing Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears

Dissolve in sighs-and sentimental tears, With laden breath, and solemn-rounded sentence, [Repentance; Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ?"

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TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,

MRS. DUNLOP, of Dunlop.

SENSIBILITY how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell: But distress with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well! Fairest flower, behold the lily,

Blooming in the sunny ray: Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys: Hapless bird! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow ; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man aliveTo make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!

Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;

Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope

thy neck

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf!
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

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Address to the Shade of Thomson,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM,
ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

WHILE virgin spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between: While Summer with a matron grace Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade: While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Ballads on Mr. Beron's Elections. [BALLAD FIRST] (284.).

WHOM will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that ?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that;
Where is the laird or belted knight
That best deserves to fa' that?

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
And wha is't never saw that?
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,

The honest man, and a' that.
Tho' wit and worth in either sex,
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that;
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.
But why should we to nobles jouk?
And is't against the law that?
For why, a lord may be a gouk,
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that..
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,,
Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that,

For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought and sold
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.
Then let us drink the Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be,

For weel he's worthy a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They would be blest that saw that.

[BALLAD SECOND.]
The Election.

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,

For there will be bickerin' there; For Murray's light-horse are to muster, And oh, how the heroes will swear!

And there will be Murray commander,
And Gordon the battle to win ;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance an' sin.

And there will be black-lippit Johnnie (285),
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An' he get na hell for his haddin',

The deil gets na justice ava’;
And there will be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane,
But, as for his fine nabob fortune,

We'll e'en let the subject alane. (286)
And there will be Wigton's new sheriff;
Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Busby,

But, Lord, what's become o' the head? And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; A wight that will weather damnation, For the devil the prey will despise. And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), New christ'ning towns far and near; Abjuring their democrat doings,

By kissing the

o' a peer; And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, Whose honour is proof to the storm, To save them from stark reprobation,

He lent then his name to the firm.

But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body, e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. And where is our king's lord lieutenant, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? The billie is gettin' his questions,

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. And there will be lads o' the gospel,

Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true: And there will be Buittle's apostle,

Wha's more o' the black than the blue; And there will be folk from St. Mary's, A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highlyThe deil ane will gie them his vote!

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And there will be trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honour was ever his law,
If the virtues were packed in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a'.
And can we forget the auld major,

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys,
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him only 'tis justice to praise.
And there will be maiden Kilkerran,

And also Barskimming's guid knight,
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle,
Wha, luckily, roars in the right.
And there frae the Niddesdale borders,

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves;
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walie,
That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Logan Mac Douall,
Sculdudd'ry and he will be there,
And also the wild Scot of Galloway,
Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair.

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton,
And hey for the blessings 'twill bring!
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king;
And hey for the sanctified Murray,

Our land who wi' chapels has stor❜d;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

[BALLAD THIRD.] An Excellent New Sung,

TUNE-Buy broom besoms,

WHA will buy my troggin (290),
Fine election ware ;
Broken trade o' Broughton,
A' in high repair.

Buy braw troggin,

Frae the banks o' Dee; Who wants troggin

Let him come to me.

There's a noble Earl's

Fame and high renown (291),
For an auld sang-

It's thought the gudes were strown
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth o' Broughton (292),

In a needle's ee:

Here's a reputation

Tint by Balmaghie. (293)

Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's an honest conscience

Might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' TinwaldSo was never worn. (294)

Buy braw troggin, &c.

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