The Highlanders, and other poems By Mrs. Grant, Laggan. Second edition |
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TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK,
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 | The Highlanders, and other poems |  |
TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK,
WITH AN INVALID SOLDIER'S PETITION.
By a concurrence of odd circumstances, partly owing to his ignorance of the English language, the poor man, who is the subject of this address, missed getting his certificate for the Chelsea pension when his regiment was disbanded; but being in pretty easy circumstances, he married, took a farm, and put up quietly with the privation. Growing into years, however, and finding his cattle diminish in proportion as his family increased, he was advised to set earnestly about obtaining the object here solicited. Two officers were yet living who happened to be beside him when he fell, in consequence of his wound, on the heights of Abram. They signed his Petition, and the Muse seconded it, just thirty years after that event took place, by the following poem sent inclosed to Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York. The humane reader will be pleased to hear, that the application proved successful.
Where artless truth and simple manners reign,
The blushing Muse conveys the humble plea
Of modest merit, Royal York, to thee:
To soothe thy princely ear, or reach thy heart.
Though oft that Muse with kindling transport view'd
Thy laurels sprouting in the field of blood,
And joy'd to see, when glory's day begun,
The youthful eagle soar so near the sun.
By the slow Scheldt, or deep majestic Rhine,
The martial spirit of the Brunswick line,
In ages past, as in the present days,
Has left rich trophies of undying bays:
Yet though they oft made hostile squadrons yield,
The heroes never view'd a brighter field,
Than where our wounded veteran press'd the plain,
And Honour wept o'er Wolfe untimely slain!
When roughest warriors, all unus'd to melt,
Through every rank the soft contagion felt:
And Britain's Genius saw with cheerless eye
O'er Abram's heights victorious standards fly:
Nor deem'd the dear-won glories of the day
Could her young Hero's matchless loss repay.
While Britain decks with martial wreaths thy brow,
What her lamented Wolfe was once—be thou!
The olive with the laurel garland blend,
The brave man's patron, and the good man's friend!
Such Granby was, whose name, to glory dear,
Still sweetly vibrates on the soldier's ear.
And Gallia's lilies cropt on Cressy's field,
Though his bold arm laid countless warriors low,
Shed pity's balm o'er every human woe;
And when he saw the hostile tumult cease,
Each milder virtue exercis'd in peace:
Hence his fair fame with clear and radiant blaze
“Spreads and grows brighter with the length of days.”
Yields his just cause to your indulgent care,
Would hope to touch with sacrilegious hand
The valued treasure of his native land;
Since his hard lot no earlier was discern'd,
He claims not all the meed so dearly earn'd;
But now by years and indigence oppress'd,
With modest patience forms this small request,
That he his aged limbs at peace may lay,
And calmly waste his fast declining day;
And when his soul aspires where Wolfe is fled,
He'll leave a soldier's blessing on your head.
See at your feet no common object bend,
A tender parent, and a generous friend:
To independence once he could aspire,
And cherish'd Want sat smiling by his fire;
But anxious care and sad dejection now
Lurk in the furrows of his manly brow;
To blast the peace of life's concluding scene:
His humble worth, mark'd by the Muse alone,
That Muse who lives unseen, and sings unknown,
Shall to brave York's indulgent ear convey,
While truth and pity consecrate the lay.
| The Highlanders, and other poems | |