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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-

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 a' tender mercies,
And tirl 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
Wi' 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.

Tament of Mary Queen of rats,

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,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r

Makes woodland echoes ring:
The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest :
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae ;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang!

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!

My son my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine!

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave :

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

The Whistle. (263).

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good
Scottish king,
[shall ring.
And long with this whistle all Scotland |

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No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, [remained; Which now in his house has for ages Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,

The jovial contest again have renew'd. Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear as flaw; [law; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; [wines.

And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

Desiring Glenriddle to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, [the man.

And once more, in claret, try which was

"By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More (265), [times o'er." And bumper his horn with him twenty

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, [or his friend, But he ne'er turned his back on his foeSaid, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field, [yield.

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

So noted for drowning of sorrow and But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame [lovely dame. Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet A bard was selected to witness the fray, 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; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had

been.

core,

The dinner being o'er the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, [they were wet. And the bands grew the tighter the more Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a [forlorn, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, [fight, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

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shore,

Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!
Ye heathy wastes, inmix'd with reedy fens;
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes
stor❜d;

Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.
Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their
worth,

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, And not a muse in honest grief bewail We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the

spheres ;

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,

Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

Lament

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN (266.) THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,

By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta'en.
He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould'ring down with
years;

His locks were bleached white with time,
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,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing
The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
But nought in all revolving time
Again ye'll charin the ear and e'e;

Can gladness bring again to me.

I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain;

THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM.

But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hold of earth is gane: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm,

And ithers plant them in my room. I've seen sae mony changefu' years,

On earth I ain a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men,

Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
And last (the sum of a' my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flow'r amang our barons bold,

His country's pride! his country's stay-
In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead,

And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever fled.

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of woe and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay

Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard

Lines

185

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, BART., OF
WHITEFORD, WITH THE FOREGOINg poem.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought
earthly fear'st,

To thee this votive offering I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valued'st, I, the patron, lov'd:
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd;
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark
world unknown.

Third Epistle to Mr. Graham,

OF FINTRY.

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest);
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's
wail?
[tale),

(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her
And hear him curse the light he first
survey'd,
[trade?
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming.

Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign;

Thou brought'st from fortune's mirkest Of thy caprice maternal I complain. gloom.

In poverty's low barren vale

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round;
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found'st me like the morning sun,
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.
Oh! why has worth so short a date?

While villains ripen grey with time;
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of woe!-
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!
The bridegroom may forget the bride,
Was made his wedded wife yestreen:
The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!”

The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:

Thou givs't the ass his hide, the snail his shell,

[cell;

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his
Thy minion, kings, defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their
drug,
[snug;

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts,
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and

darts;

But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the
Bard!

A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot, too, more helpless still;
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen

worn,

And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn :
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur ;-

In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry
side:

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
Critics-appall'd I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of
fame :
[(267)
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

must wear:

His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
By blockhead's daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig
[strife,
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal
The hapless poet flounders on through life;
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
And fled each muse that glorious once
inspired,

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless
critic's rage!

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,

For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast :
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son,

Oh dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
Thy sous ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of fortune's polar frost or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well
deserve,

They only wonder "some folks" do not starve.
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And thro' disast'rous night they darkling
grope,

With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's

care."

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(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears): Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish, pray'r!Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down;

May bliss domestic smooth his private path, Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, [death!

With many a filial tear circling the bed

Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham,

OF FINTRY ON RECEIVING A favour. (268) I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns; Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns, And all the tribute of my heart returns, For boons accorded, goodness ever new, The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! And all ye many sparkling stars of night; If aught that giver from my mind efface, If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; Then roll to me, alang your wandering spheres, Only to number out a villain's years!

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WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,

The fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of state must each produce his plan,

And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, One sacred Right of Woman is protection. The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward th' impending

storm.

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