The Works of John Hall-Stevenson :: :: University of Virginia Library

But, when you 'spy a Scotchman walking,
His air and manner is so pleasing,
That you immediately leave hawking,
And offer him a pickle of your sneesing.

I do not want to rob you of your snuff,
Give it your countrymen, it likes me well
But do not fright us, like Macduff,
Calling aloud, to ring the alarum bell;
Suspend your purulence, swallow your spittle,
And listen to an Englishman a little.

You know you spit at us, and hawk and cough,
As if you had a charter;
And also know we wipe it meekly off,
Like Charles the blessed Martyr.

Whilst you go on, abuse, and rail,
As if we were not fellow-creatures;
Laying about you like a flail,
And bruising all our English features;

If we poor Englishmen but smile,
It is high treason,
Tho' we are smiling all the while
Both with good nature and good reason;

Not throwing dirt at a whole nation ,
But laughing at the folly of a few,
Whose prejudice and affectation
Become them just as they do you;

As if they were a chosen race,
Clear and exempted, by their birth
From all the vices that disgrace
All other children of the earth.

I very readily excuse
Your want of complaisance
To my strange Muse,
Dress'd in the careless dress of France,
A la Fontaine,
A slattern, but quite plain.

According to your notions,
You must dislike the flimsy wench.
Her dress and all her motions
Are so intolerably French;
A graceless copy of a graceless hobbler,
Just like a gouty shoe made by a cobler.

You think the bagpipe's notes are sweeter
Than any pipe or any string;
The Ass preferr'd the Cuckow's song and metre
To all the Warblers of the Spring:
Either the organs or the soul
Of you and Asses are so droll .

Your ignorance and want of Sense,
Your want of Ears, I do forgive;
But unprovok'd Malevolence
I'll never pardon whilst I live;
Such your attempt to prove me to the North
A foe to its acknowledg'd worth.

In every country I despise
A heart that's arrogant and narrow,
As much as I esteem and prize
David Hume and David's marrow.
Now to conclude,
I am yours Reviewing or Review'd.

But as my Fables are not to your liking,
Witness the Fable of last year ,
I send you something that's more striking,
Concise and clear:
I think you call it in your brogue
An apologue.

According to the Reviewers the greatest pleasure that the whole English nation enjoys, is to see their brethren of North Britain in their theatres represented as a parcel of scoundrels.

The Reviewers say that the Verses in the Fables for Grown Gentlemen hobble strangely, from fourteen to two syllables: that may partly be owing to their want of ears; they must have the same objection to Fontaine.

Lyric Epistles to the Reviewers.

See p. 41.