The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill ... A New Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill |  |
31
TO MRS PLEYDELL.
WITH A POT OF HONEY, During the ferment occasioned by the Popish Bill of Toleration, 1779 .
Removed, thank God! from fierce contentions;
Unknown to parties or Conventions;
Alike averse to rage and folly,
And foe to gloomy melancholy;
Amid confusion, war, and zeal,
Accept these lines from bard Macneill.
Unknown to parties or Conventions;
Alike averse to rage and folly,
And foe to gloomy melancholy;
Amid confusion, war, and zeal,
Accept these lines from bard Macneill.
32
When morning comes, my breakfast down,
Composed and wrapped in flannel gown,
Till Andrew comes my brains to muddy,
I dedicate some hours to study.—
Behold me then, in elbow chair,
Turn o'er a leaf with serious air;
Or seized with strong poetic fit,
Compose some precious scrap of wit:—
Fired by the muse's melting strain,
I rise—sit down—get up again;
When 'midst my raptures, frisks, and capers,
Bounce! in comes Christy with—the papers.
Composed and wrapped in flannel gown,
Till Andrew comes my brains to muddy,
I dedicate some hours to study.—
Behold me then, in elbow chair,
Turn o'er a leaf with serious air;
Or seized with strong poetic fit,
Compose some precious scrap of wit:—
Fired by the muse's melting strain,
I rise—sit down—get up again;
When 'midst my raptures, frisks, and capers,
Bounce! in comes Christy with—the papers.
With some regret I drop the quill.—
Well!—what's the news?—the Popish Bill.
Is Keppel tried?—a dull essay
From fierce I. A. to sly John Hay ;
Has d'Estaing sailed?—“To show the better
What papists are, this day a letter,
Just from the press, which well explains
What hellish laws that sect maintains!”
Where's Byron?—“Murders!—popish tricks;
No faith!—no faith with heretics!”
Ashamed;—provoked in every page,
I curse the papers in a rage;
Start up and ring with all my might;
—Here!—take this nonsense from my sight!
Well!—what's the news?—the Popish Bill.
33
From fierce I. A. to sly John Hay ;
Has d'Estaing sailed?—“To show the better
What papists are, this day a letter,
Just from the press, which well explains
What hellish laws that sect maintains!”
Where's Byron?—“Murders!—popish tricks;
No faith!—no faith with heretics!”
Ashamed;—provoked in every page,
I curse the papers in a rage;
Start up and ring with all my might;
—Here!—take this nonsense from my sight!
34
Scarce have I banished raving faction,
Till in bolts J---y in distraction.
“All—all is lost!—d'Estaing's gone forth!
God curse that headstrong blockhead North!
No scheme succeeds—we've no invention!—
This nation's ruined past redemption!
Our fleets are beat!—our trade is gone—
We'll be invaded ten to one—
Ecod! the French may come to-morrow—
It won't cause universal sorrow.—
They've many friends in this wise nation—
The Popish bill of toleration.”—
Stop, Doctor!—stop!—“Why should I stop, pray!”
I'm really sick of bill of popery—
“The deuce you are!—your reasons?—eh!”—
Some other time—some other day.
Till in bolts J---y in distraction.
“All—all is lost!—d'Estaing's gone forth!
God curse that headstrong blockhead North!
No scheme succeeds—we've no invention!—
This nation's ruined past redemption!
Our fleets are beat!—our trade is gone—
We'll be invaded ten to one—
Ecod! the French may come to-morrow—
It won't cause universal sorrow.—
They've many friends in this wise nation—
The Popish bill of toleration.”—
Stop, Doctor!—stop!—“Why should I stop, pray!”
I'm really sick of bill of popery—
35
Some other time—some other day.
Thus, doubly teased 'twixt saint and sinner,
An invitation comes to dinner:
To dress I run—thank heaven! I cry,
Some pious hearts are often dry;
A cheerful glass may work a wonder;
May still, perhaps, this papal thunder.—
O! grant us, Bacchus, wine that's strong!
Raise! Orpheus, raise the blithesome song!
Let Pleydell come, serenely gay!
And social mirth shall crown the day.
Flushed with fond hope, away I haste—
(Alas! why must I tell the rest!)
In spite of dishes, nice and rare,
In spite of wit—for you were there;
In spite of ale, punch, port, and sherry;
Though S---n sang, we ne'er were merry.
Ask you the cause? 'twas indigestion,
From one cursed sauce each dish was drest in;
For while we ate and drank our fill,
Still in our stomachs stuck the—bill.
Ere since this feast, or popish revel,
I've been a poor tormented devil!
Where'er I popt my list'ning head;
Whate'er I heard; whate'er I read;
From morn to night, from day to day,
The constant theme was—Popery.
An invitation comes to dinner:
To dress I run—thank heaven! I cry,
Some pious hearts are often dry;
A cheerful glass may work a wonder;
May still, perhaps, this papal thunder.—
O! grant us, Bacchus, wine that's strong!
Raise! Orpheus, raise the blithesome song!
Let Pleydell come, serenely gay!
And social mirth shall crown the day.
Flushed with fond hope, away I haste—
(Alas! why must I tell the rest!)
36
In spite of wit—for you were there;
In spite of ale, punch, port, and sherry;
Though S---n sang, we ne'er were merry.
Ask you the cause? 'twas indigestion,
From one cursed sauce each dish was drest in;
For while we ate and drank our fill,
Still in our stomachs stuck the—bill.
Ere since this feast, or popish revel,
I've been a poor tormented devil!
Where'er I popt my list'ning head;
Whate'er I heard; whate'er I read;
From morn to night, from day to day,
The constant theme was—Popery.
'Tis now, methinks, five weeks at least,
Since first I sought some tranquil feast;
Where wholesome food and converse kind
Might please the stomach, cheer the mind;
Make folks good-humoured, frank, and civil,
And banish popery to—the devil!
I sought, I say; nay racked my brain,
To find this feast, but all in vain;
When t'other morn, in 'elbow chair,
Untied my shoes, uncombed my hair,
Two hours from bed, and breakfast o'er,
Rap! went the knocker at the door.
Upstarted Christy from the wheel—
“Is this the house o'Squire Macneill?”
“Yes—what is that?”—“A can, my queen,
Just come to Leith frae Aberdeen;
The freight's a shilling—carriage twa—
The weight I'm sure is far frae sma'—
I wonder what the sorrow's in't?
It maun be leed, or stane o'flint!
The deil be on't! its hurt my heed,
It's surely filled wi' stanes or leed!”
The chattering rogue received his money,
The stones and lead turned out good—Honey;
Pure, rich, and sparkling as you see;
The product of th' industrious bee:
A balmy gift from shrub and flower!
The fruits of many a toilsome hour.
Since first I sought some tranquil feast;
37
Might please the stomach, cheer the mind;
Make folks good-humoured, frank, and civil,
And banish popery to—the devil!
I sought, I say; nay racked my brain,
To find this feast, but all in vain;
When t'other morn, in 'elbow chair,
Untied my shoes, uncombed my hair,
Two hours from bed, and breakfast o'er,
Rap! went the knocker at the door.
Upstarted Christy from the wheel—
“Is this the house o'Squire Macneill?”
“Yes—what is that?”—“A can, my queen,
Just come to Leith frae Aberdeen;
The freight's a shilling—carriage twa—
The weight I'm sure is far frae sma'—
38
It maun be leed, or stane o'flint!
The deil be on't! its hurt my heed,
It's surely filled wi' stanes or leed!”
The chattering rogue received his money,
The stones and lead turned out good—Honey;
Pure, rich, and sparkling as you see;
The product of th' industrious bee:
A balmy gift from shrub and flower!
The fruits of many a toilsome hour.
Struck with the prospect of my treasure,
I felt, methought, unusual pleasure:
A sudden charm; a joy refined
Shed peace and comfort o'er the mind
Each sound of Popery died away,
And thus I said—or meant to say—
I felt, methought, unusual pleasure:
A sudden charm; a joy refined
Shed peace and comfort o'er the mind
Each sound of Popery died away,
And thus I said—or meant to say—
39
In past'ral days, when wants were few,
When love beat strong and friendship true,
Our fathers, nurtured in content,
A calm unruffled lifetime spent
Mid herds and flocks (their only care),
A feast like this was oft their fare.
Here, by the streamlet's bubbling side,
Unknown to controversial pride,
The oaten pipe and rural lay
Chaced spleen and ranc'rous hate away.—
Unskilled in schoolmen's mystic dance,
Untrained in dark Intolerance,
No zealous phrensy fired the breast;
No fears fantastic broke their rest;
By nature taught, they still pursued
What whispering conscience said was good;
Nor could their social minds approve
Of aught that severed peace and love!
When love beat strong and friendship true,
Our fathers, nurtured in content,
A calm unruffled lifetime spent
Mid herds and flocks (their only care),
A feast like this was oft their fare.
Here, by the streamlet's bubbling side,
Unknown to controversial pride,
The oaten pipe and rural lay
Chaced spleen and ranc'rous hate away.—
Unskilled in schoolmen's mystic dance,
Untrained in dark Intolerance,
No zealous phrensy fired the breast;
No fears fantastic broke their rest;
By nature taught, they still pursued
What whispering conscience said was good;
40
Of aught that severed peace and love!
Harassed with zeal, and frantic passion,
And for the times—quite out of fashion;
I can't help sighing for repose,
Envying the life our fathers chose.
At morn and eve whene'er I spy
My warning can with placid eye,
In midst of fierce religious splutter,
I spread, with smiles, my bread and butter;
Draw near my feast of sparkling brown,
Lay thick the charm, then—gulp it down;
Experience joys serenely still,
Nor pass one thought on—Popish Bill.
Take then, dear Pleydell! take this treasure,
The source of soothing peace and pleasure;
When dark and dismal qualms attack you,
Or fears of popish priests distract you,
Observe the rule I herewith give you,
And take my word it will relieve you.
And for the times—quite out of fashion;
I can't help sighing for repose,
Envying the life our fathers chose.
At morn and eve whene'er I spy
My warning can with placid eye,
In midst of fierce religious splutter,
I spread, with smiles, my bread and butter;
Draw near my feast of sparkling brown,
Lay thick the charm, then—gulp it down;
Experience joys serenely still,
Nor pass one thought on—Popish Bill.
41
The source of soothing peace and pleasure;
When dark and dismal qualms attack you,
Or fears of popish priests distract you,
Observe the rule I herewith give you,
And take my word it will relieve you.
When Sol through curtains darts his head,
And wakes sweet Aggy still in bed,
Or Vesper mild through whispering groves
Lures Mary to the haunts she loves;
When cups are ranged, and muffins hot,
And green or congo in the pot;
Instead of popery's dismal gloom,
Pour out a dish of rich perfume:
Dismiss your fears—be frank—be funny—
Produce with smiles your—Can of Honey.
Glance o'er these lines ('twill be an honour
Conferred upon the happy donor);
Excuse whate'er you thing is said ill;—
In short, be—just blithe Mrs Pleydell.
And wakes sweet Aggy still in bed,
Or Vesper mild through whispering groves
Lures Mary to the haunts she loves;
When cups are ranged, and muffins hot,
And green or congo in the pot;
42
Pour out a dish of rich perfume:
Dismiss your fears—be frank—be funny—
Produce with smiles your—Can of Honey.
Glance o'er these lines ('twill be an honour
Conferred upon the happy donor);
Excuse whate'er you thing is said ill;—
In short, be—just blithe Mrs Pleydell.
This bill, so harmless, and indeed so laudable in its principles, occasioned, however, through fanaticism and intolerance, the burning of the Popish chapel in Edinburgh, and the dreadful conflagration in London.
A nonjuring clergyman and a Roman priest. These two gentlemen kept up for some months a daily warfare in the public prints, which, together with advertisements of protestant associations, and pamphlets for and against popery, generally occupied nearly two-thirds of the newspapers.
| The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | |