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tear :

the lay;


Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you! Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms, So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms;

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain But come, all ye offspring of folly so true,

high, And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold | And steal from me Maria's eye. bier.

Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest

dress, We'll search through the garden for each Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, silly flower,

(weed; I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, We'll roam through the forest for each idle

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; Put chieily the nettle, so typical, shower,

I see her face the first of Ireland's sons (277), For none e'er approached her but rued

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; the rash deed.

The crafty colonel (278) leaves the tartanel

lines We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure

For other wars, where he a hero shines ;

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; There keen indignation shall dart on her

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head,

Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display, prey,

That veni, vidi, vici, is his way; Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his ire.

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks ;

[state Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,

Though there, his heresies in church and What once was a butterfly gay in life's Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: beam:

Still she undaunted reels and rattles ou, Want only of wisdom denied her respect,

And dares the public like a noontide siin. Want only of goodness denied her esteem. (What scandal callid Maria’s jaunty stagger,

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger;
Whose spleen e'en worse than Buru's venom,

Epistle from Goouus to Faria. He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, (276)

Who christen'dd thus Maria's lyre divine, From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, The idiot strun of vanity bemused, Where intamy with sad repentance dwells; And even th' abuse of poesy abused : Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse, And deal from iron hands the spare repast,


(stray'd ?) Where triant 'prentices, yet young in sin, For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,

A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my Resolve to drink, nay, halt to whore no

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, In durance vile here must I wake and weep, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string :

And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! From these dire scenes my wretched lines That straw where many a rogue lias lain of I date,

vore, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate.

And vermin’d Gipsies litter'd heretofore.

Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants "Alas! I feel I am no actor here !"

pour; 'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear

Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale

líust thou alone in guilt immortal swell, Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; And make a rast monopoly of hell ? Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee

pollid, By barber woven, and by barber sold,

The vices also, must they club their curse ? Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest Or must no tiny sin to others fall, care,

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all ? Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more, Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;

In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares.





As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,

“ “ 'Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story, Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 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 ? Virsrs ta Filias Graham Our force united on thy foes we'll turn

OF FINTRY. (281) And dare the war with all of woman born: For who can write and speak as thou and I? | HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal My periods that decyphering defy,


(join'd, Aud thy still matchless tongue that conquers

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers all reply.

Accept the gift;—tho' humble he who gives,

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, sannet.

Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;

But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL OF

Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794. (279) No more, ye warblers of the wood-110 more! Or pity's notes in luxury of tears,

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; Nor pour your descant, grating, on my While conscious virtue all the strain endears, soul:

[dant stole, Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy ver

And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. Niore welcome were to me grim Winter's

wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your

The Tauris, dves?

[friend! Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my 'Twas where the birch and sounding thong How can I to the tueful strain attend?

are plied, That strain flows round th' untimely tomb The noisy domicile of pedant pride; wilere Riddel lies!

Where ignorance her dark'ning vapour Yes, pour, ye varhlers, pour the notes of woe! throws,

And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: And cruelty directs the thick’ning blows; The Ian of Worth, who has not left his Upon a time, Sir A-be-ce the great, peer,

In all his pedagogic powers elate, Is in lis“ narrow house" for ever darkly low.

for ever darkly low. His awful chair of state resolves to mount,

And call the trembling vowels to account. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet,

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, Me, mem’ry of my loss will only meet. But, ah! deform’d, dishonest to the sight!

His twisted head look'd backward on his way,

Aud flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai! Impromptit

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race ON MRS RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY. (280) The jostling tears ran down his honest face!

That name, that well-worn name, and all his OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd

Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne; 6 What have I done of all the year,

The Pedant stifles keen the Roman sound To bear this hated doom severe ?

Not all his mongreldiphthongs can compound; My cheerless suns no pleasure know; And wext the title following close behind, Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow;

He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded, Y?

In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,

The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, To counterbalance all this evil;

And knock'd the groaning vowel to the Give me, and I've no more to say,

Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,

In rueful apprehension enter'd 0,
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me." The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;


his art;



Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,

Altūress Might there have learnt new inysteries of


NIGHT (282), So grim, deform’d, with horrors entering U, Still anxious to secure your partial favour, His dearest friend and brother scarcely And not less anxious, sure, this night, than knew !

ever, As trembling U stood staring all aghast, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, | 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, sight.

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ;
Said, nothing like his works was


And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. Vrrsrs fo Ioli Rankine,

“Ma'am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of ANE day, as Death, that grusome carle,


[times :

“I know your bent—these are no laughing Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie, motley squad,

Can you—but Miss, I own I have my

fears And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination,

Dissolve in sighs—and sentimental tears, And thieves of every rank and station,

With laden breath, and solemn-rounded

sentence, From him that wears the star and garter,


Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell To him that wintles in a halter : Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches,

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,

Waving on high the desolating brand, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, By G-, I'll not be seen behint them,

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty

land ?" Nor 'mang the sp’ritual core present them, Without, at least, ane honest man,

I could no

more-askance the creature To grace this d-d infernal clan."


[crying? By Adamıhill a glance he threw,

D'ye thivk, said I, this face was made for "L-God!" quoth he, “I have it now, I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world There's just the man I want, i' faithi !"

shall know it; And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my tix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;

I also think—so may I be a bride!-
On iritsibilit.

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND,

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP.

Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; SENSIBILITY how charming,

Doom'd to that sorest task of man aliveThou, my friend, canst truly tell: To make three guineas do the work of five: But distress with horrors arming,

Laugh in Misfortune's face--the beldam Thou hast also known too well!

witch! Fairest flower, behold the lily,

Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. Blooming in the sunny ray:

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast See it prostrate on the clay.


Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,

Measur'st in desperate thought--a rupe Telling o'er his little joys :

thy neckHapless bird ! a prey the surest,

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, To each pirate of the skies.

Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,

Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf! Finer feelings can bestow;

Laugh at her foliies-laugh e'en at thyself: Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure.

Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

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.

To Chlaris. (283)

Ballads on Hr. Drron's Elertiuns. 'Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair

(BALLAD FIRST] (284.). Nor thou the gift refuse, [friend, Whom will you send to London town, Nor with unwilling ear attend

To Parliament and a' that? The moralising muse.

Or wha in a' the country round

The best deserves to fa' that? Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,

For a' that, and a' that, Must bid the world adieu,

Thro' Galloway and a' that; (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)

Where is the laird or belted knight To join the friendly few.

That best deserves to fa' that? Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast,

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, Chill came the tempest's lower;

And wha is't never saw that? (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met Did nip a fairer flower.)

And has a doubt of a' that?

For a' that, and a' that,
Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, Here's Heron yet for a' that!
Still much is left behind;

The independent patriot,
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store

The honest man, and a' that. The comforts of the mind!

Tho' wit and worth in either sex, Thine is the self-approving glow,

St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; On conscious honour's part;

Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix,

And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
And, dearest gift of heaven below,
Thine friendship’s truest heart.

For a' that, and a' that,

Here's Heron yet for a' that! The joys refin’d of sense and taste,

The independent commoner With every muse to rove:

Shall be the inan for a' that. And doubly were the poet blest,

But why should we to nobles jouk?
These joys could he improve.

And is't against the law that?
For why, a lord may be a gouk,

Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that.
Address to the shade of Thomson,

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...
WHILE virgin spring, by Eden's food,

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,. Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that; Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, Or tunes Eolian strains between:

A man we ken, and a' that, While Summer with a matron grace

For a' that, and a' that, , Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,

Here's Heron yet for a' that! Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

For we're not to be bought and sold The progress of the spiky blade:

Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.

Then let us drink the Stewartry, While Autumn, benefactor kind,

Kerroughtree's laird, and, a' that, By Tweed erects his aged head,

Our representative to be, And sees, with self-approving mind,

For weel he's worthy a' that. Each creature on his bounty fed:

For a' that, and a' that, While maniac Winter rages o'er

Here's Heron yet for a' that! The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,

A House of Commons such as he, Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,

They would be blest that saw that. Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

(BALLAD SECOND.] So long, sweet Poet of the year!

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

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

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 there will be trusty Kerroughtree, And Gordon the battle to win;

Whose honour was ever his law, Like brothers they'll stand by each other, If the virtues were packed in a parcel, Sae knit in alliance an' sin,

His worth might be sample for a'. And there will be black-lippit Johnnie (285), And can we forget the auld major, The tongue o' the trump to them a';

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, An' he get na hell for his haddin',

Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, The deil gets na justice ava';

Him only 'tis justice to praise, And there will be Kempleton's birkie,

And there will be maiden Kilkerran, A boy no sae black at the bane,

And also Barskimming's guid knight, But, as for his fine nabob fortune,

And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, We'll e'en let the subject alane. (286)

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. And there will be Wigton's new sheriff ;

And there frae the Niddesdale borders, Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped,

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; She's gotten the heart of a Busby,

Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walie, But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? That griens for the fishes and loaves; And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, And there will be Logan Mac Douall, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;

Sculduda'ry and he will be there, A wight that will weather damnation,

And also the wild Scot of Galloway, For the devil the prey will despise.

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, New christ’ning towns far and near ;

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! Abjuring their democrat doings,

It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, By kissing the -- o' a peer ;

In Sodoin 'twould make bim a king; And there will be kennure sae gen'rous,

And hey for the sanctified Nurray, Whose honour is proof to the storm,

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd;

He founder'd his horse among harlots,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent then his name to the tirin.

But gied the auld naig to the Lord.

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 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 highly-

The deil ane will gie then his vote!
And there will be wealthy young Richard,

Dame fortune should hing by the neck; For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing,

His merit had won him respect : And there will be rich brother nabobs,

Tho' nabobs yet men of the first,
And there will be Colijeston's whiskers,

And Quintin, o'lads not the warst.
And there will be stamp-office Johnnie,

Tak tent how ye purchase a dram; [(289)
And there will be gay Cassencarrie,

And there will be gleg Colonel Tam;

St Carllett Jet Suit,

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 troygin

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 troygin, &c.
Here's an honest conscience

Might a prince adurn;
Frae the downs o' Tinwald-
So was never worn. (294)

Buy braw troggin, &c.

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