The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell :: :: University of Virginia Library

Townsman.
You're welcome, Farmer, to our ancient town!
Here, take a chair, my friend, and sit you down.
You come in lucky hour; our dinner's hot,
And you must take a share of what we've got.
I say, again, you're welcome to Auld Reekie!—
Here are fresh herrings, and here's cock-a-leekie;
The market's near, and, as you are our guest,
A good beef-stake shall soon supply the rest.

Farmer.
I thank you; for I know you are sincere,
And freely give your hospitable cheer.
Your fare is excellent—far from the sea,
A bit of fish is luxury to me.

Townsman.
Luxury! name not that unhallowed phrase,
The very word makes cynic ire to blaze.
Have you not heard how this, our hapless city—
Without reserve or common Christian pity—
For very luxury, “God save the mark!”
Is to the devil sent and regions dark;
Given to the sentence of harsh condemnation,
For the unheard-of crime of Imitation?
Those who have cash, it seems, come here to spend;
Folks, as their purses fill, their views extend;
And we, the Citizens, in part partaking,
Are guilty of the sin of merry-making.
A Poet, in ill-humour or in passion,
Phrenzied by change of Manners and Town Fashion,
Rails at the change, and summons poor Edina,
To mend her ways with terrible subpœna.

Farmer.
'Twas ever so, in each succeeding age;
To rail at present times is still the rage.
The sour and discontented ever growl,
All former days are fair, all present foul;
The rigid, never-smiling misanthrope,
Imbitters present good, and blasts our hope;

Prates of Corruption's overwhelming tide,
And, by invective, gratifies self-pride.
The times are changed, I own, and so are men;
Manners are changed, and still must change again.
Time was, the Wits of Anna's golden age,
Whose tyrant genius swayed the classic page,
With magic melody of powerful song
Awed into native nothingness the throng;
Inflated Impotence collapsed and shrunk,
Fretted unknown, or in oblivion sunk.
Few rhymsters then would dare the public view:
We could write doggrels, but could burn them too.
Now ev'ry bungler courts the public eye;
Hot-press'd he shines, and simple fools will buy;
Deck'd in the gaudy trappings of the trade,
With graphic and with typographic aid,
Splendid in margin, cuts, and types, and ink,
In green to flourish, or to blush in pink.

Townsman.
You talk, my friend, with most surprising skill,
Whose days are pass'd remote, on dale and hill,
And seem even liberal sentiments to feel.
Soon shall we finish this, our good plain meal;
Well pleas'd, I then shall listen to your tale,
O'er bumpers, foaming high, of Giles's ale.

Farmer.

I'm but a rustic: Far remov'd from harm,
I watch the culture of an ample farm.
Our neighbouring markets, and the price of grain,
The choice of stock, the likelihood of rain;
Ploughs, harrows, sheep, and oxen, are my care,
And my red-letter day some well-known fair.
To such as me, though wisdom is denied,
We oft must chat around a warm fireside.
Old age is garrulous; I'm somewhat too,
When some old story rushes to my view.
These locks, you see, are gray; and guess, I ween,
That many a bleaching winter I have seen.
I studied for the Kirk, and you must know,
Dwelt in your city forty years ago.
I love her yet—nor careless, prythee, deem
Your country guest to old Edina's theme.
I feel long slumbering academic fire
Wake in my veins, and flitting dreams inspire.
Old as I am, I'll mount on Fancy's wing,
And, like a dying Swan, I'll try to sing.
Let me then grasp, though in a feeble hand,
Like some old necromancer, Fancy's wand—
Thus, while I wave it round, all disappears
That Time and Art have done in Fifty years.
Hence every Dome that swells your Adam's fame,

Hence every street that bears some Royal name!
Fly, as before John Knox, each letter'd Saint,
Fly, ev'ry holy rogue, from stone and paint!
To non-existence either Bridge consigned,
Leave not on Fancy's eye a wreck behind.
Ye formal Squares and Parallels, begone!
Hailes and Craigleith, resume your mass of stone!

'Tis done—and lo! to greet the coming year,
See Barefoot's Parks in vernal pride appear;
Long broken walls enclose a narrow road
Which leads by Lady Di's retired abode;
The Nor-loch fills, and odour sweet exhales,
And neighbouring tan-pits scent the passing gales.
Fancy, once more, at thy divine command,
Within the Ancient Royalty I stand.
How the reviving scene my bosom soothes!
In Creech's rear, behold the Lucken-booths!
Beneath the Church's shadow, in the Craims,
See toys, and gloves, and pattens, for the dames;
And in mid-street, fit theme for laureate bard,
The proper Castle of the City Guard.
Perch'd on its breech, one cannon it could boast,
Which marked it for a military post.
Oft have I seen one of the gallant band
Beside that very cannon listless stand,
With arms across, upon its mouth recline,
And watch with care the hour that he might dine;

While o'er the semi-door his comarde hung,
Who, spite of soft Intreaty's witching tongue,
In durance held some rogue, in that black hole
Which might appal the most courageous soul:—
While, reckless of the bright Lochaber axe
The sable Sootiman would dust his sacks.

Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise,
Whose azure summits mingle with the skies;
There, from the earth the labouring porters bear
The elements of fire and water high in air;
There, as you scale the steps, with toilsome tread,
The dripping barrel madifies your head;
Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel,
A rising porter greets you with his creel!
How recollections rush upon my mind,
Of Lady Stairs's Closs and Blackford's Wynd!
There lived our Nobles, and here Judges dwelt—
O that my muse in sympathy could melt!—
Here in these chambers, ever dull and dark,
The Lady gay received her gayer spark;
Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,
Trembled at opening casements overhead;
But when in safety at her porch he trod,
He seiz'd the ring, and rasp'd the twisted rod.
“No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,
Link'd, six-a-row, six hours in Princes Street;”

But, one by one, they panted up the hill,
And picked their steps with most uncommon skill;
Then at the Cross, each joined the motley mob—
“How are ye, Tam? and how's a' wi' ye, Bob?”
Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,
And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired.
O'er draughts of wine the Beau would moan his love;
O'er draughts of wine the Cit his bargain drove;
O'er draughts of wine the Writer penn'd the will;
And Legal Wisdom counsel'd o'er a gill:
White Wine and Marmalade was then the rage,
It sooth'd the youngster, and regal'd the sage.

Ye ‘fashioned’ youths, who while away the noon,
And balance, lightly, on a silver spoon
The trembling fragments of the amber pile—
Yes! o'er a glass of jelly whilst ye smile—
Blush for your flimsy and degenerate food!
With patriot palates seek your Country's good;
O call the ancient beverage in aid;
Call Virtue back—White Wine and Marmalade!

Then were the days of comfort and of glee!
When met to drink a social cup of tea—
The chequer'd chairs, in seemly circle placed;
The Indian tray, with Indian china graced;
The red stone Tea-pot with its silver spout;
The Tea Spoons numbered, and the tea fill'd out!

Rich Whigs and Cookies smoke upon the board,
The best that Keir the baxter can afford.
Hapless the wight, who, with a lavish sup,
Empties too soon the lilliputian cup!
Tho' patience fails, and tho' with thirst he burns,
All—all must wait till the last cup returns.
That cup returned, now see the hostess ply
The tea-pot, measuring with equal eye;
To all again at once she grants the boon,
Dispensing her gunpowder by platoon.
They chat of dress (as ladies will) and cards,
And fifty friends within three hundred yards—
Or now they listen, all in merry glee,
While “Nancy Dawson,” “Sandie o'er the lee,”
(Than foreign cadence surely sweeter far)
Ring on the jingling spinet or guitar.
The clogs are ready when the treat is o'er,
And many a blazing lanthorn leaves the door.

Then were the days of modesty and mien!
Stays for the fat, and quilting for the lean.
The ribbon'd stomacher, in many a plait,
Upheld the chest and dignified the gait;
Some Venus, brightest planet of the train,
Moved in a lutstring halo, propped with cane.
Then the Assembly Closs received the Fair;
Order and elegance presided there;

Each gay Right Honourable had her place
To walk a minuet with becoming grace;
No racing to the dance with rival hurry—
Such was thy sway, O fam'd Miss Nicky Murray!
Each Lady's fan a chosen Damon bore,
With care selected many a day before;
For, unprovided with a favourite beau,
The nymph, chagrined, the ball must needs forego;
But, previous matters to her taste arranged,
Certes, the constant couple never changed;
Through a long night to watch fair Delia's will,
The same dull swain was at her elbow still.

Townsman.
But, prythee, paint the Parent's anxious aid,
Which rear'd the honest man and virtuous maid;
The cautious nurture of the youthful mind,
By precepts guided, purified, refined.

Farmer.

Yes! mark the Street, for youth the great resort,
Its spacious width the theatre of sport;
There the young scavenger and youthful lord
Pour forth infantine smut in sweet accord;
To every secret haunt with speed they flie,
Or watch with listening ear the scream, Hie spie.

There, 'midst the crowd, the jingling hoop is driven,
Full many a leg is hit, and curse is given;
Far-stooping porters, tott'ring under coals,
In Scots Celtic accents, “Tam their souls!”
There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalk'd,
Defac'd, renewed—delayed, but never baulk'd;
There, romping miss the rounded slate may drop,
And kick it out with persevering hop,
Till her associates in the froward game
Hie to the filthy cellars whence they came.
There, in the dirty current of the strand,
Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,
And wading through the puddle with slow pace,
Watch in solicitude the doubtful race!—
And there, an active band, with frequent boast,
Vault in succession o'er each wooden post.
Or a bold stripling, noted for his might,
Heads the array, and rules the mimic fight.
From hand and sling now fly the whizzing stones,
Unheeded broken heads and broken bones;
The rival hosts in close engagement mix,
Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks,
The Bicker rages, till some Mother's fears
Ring a sad story in a Bailie's ears.
Her prayer is heard; the order quick is sped,
And from that corps, which hapless Porteous led,
A brave detachment, probably of two,

Rush like two kites upon the warlike crew,
Who, struggling, like the fabled frogs and mice,
Are pounced upon, and carried in a trice.
But, mark that motley group in various garb—
There Vice begins to form her rankling barb,
The germ of Gambling sprouts in pitch and toss,
And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.
From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass,
And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.
Those polish'd rounds which decorate the coat,
And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,
Offspring of Birmingham's creative art,
Now from the faithful button-holes depart.
To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,
And Enterprise again essays the field.
So, when a few fleet years of his short span
Have ripen'd this dire passion in the Man,
When thousand after thousand takes its flight,
In the short circuit of one wretched night,
Next shall the honours of the forest fall,
And ruin desolate the Chieftain's hall;
Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain,
Then, in a mendicant, behold a Thane!

The spell dissolves, delusion melts away,
And we awaken to the present day.

The City grows and spreads on every side,
In all the honour of masonic pride.
From narrow lanes, where Pestilence was spent,
Now emigrate the Squire and thriving Gent,
To spacious mansions, elegant or neat,
Where sweeping breezes ventilate each street,
And where expanding, fanciful and free,
The rising City stretches to the Sea.
Blest be the change! May each succeeding day
Shine on your labours with propitious ray!
Ye busy Craftsmen of my native Town,
Oh that a wish could draw a blessing down!
Then should my feeble, untaught hand aspire
To strike an anthem on an humble lyre.

Townsman.
Your picture seems so true, excuse me, now;
'Tis pity you were destined to the plough.
Ah! had you linger'd within Learning's pale,
And scorn'd, unknown, to follow a plough's tail,
Some Monthly Magazine might own your aid,
The reader gratified, the bard well paid.—
The moral's obvious: though ages pass,
Still Folly's visage meets us in the glass;
Tho' she may change her with the changing moon,
With all the varied skill of a buffoon,
To every age Fate gives its proper measure,
To blind the sage, and lead the man of pleasure.

'Tis vain to be fastidious, and too nice;
Folly, while only folly, free from vice,
May vex the Puritan's sepulchral soul,
But still must form a Part of one great Whole.