The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill ... A New Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. In Two Volumes |
I. | VOL. I. |
II. |
The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | ||
I. VOL. I.
VERSES ADDRESSED TO HECTOR MACNEILL, ESQ. AUTHOR OF WILL AN' JEAN.
The following Verses possess such merit, and are so fine a tribute to the memory of a deceased and favourite Scottish Poet, that, rather than withhold them from the lovers of genuine poetry, the Author thus subjects himself to the imputation of vanity in publishing the elegant, though unmerited, compliment they contain.
On mountain tap—in valley green!
The rose alane, in native sheen,
Its head may raise!
Nae musing bardie now, I ween,
To sing their praise!
Gang saunt'ring o'er the claver lee!
The fireflaughts dartin' frae his ee
The wilds amang!
Wha native freaks wi' native glee
Sae sweetly sang!
To catch the thought in happy hour;
To busk his verse wi'ilka flower
O'fancy sweet!
An' paint the birk or brushwood bower,
Whar lovers meet!
My sweetest minstrel's fled awa!—
Yet shall his weel-worn laurels blaw
Through future days,
Till weary time in flenders a'
The warld lays!’
Which Scotia made by bank an' brae,
Whan Burns—(puir Burns!) was ta'en away,
And laid at rest!—
(Green grow the grass!—light lie the clay
Upon his breast!)
And notes o'transport fill the gale;
Nae langer down the silent vale
She lanely mourns,
And to her cheek, ance lily pale,
The rose returns!
Thy steps, Macneill, sweet bard! to trace;
To mark wi' nature's peerless grace
Thy blossoms blaw!
Happy to see thee fill the place
O'him awa!
At puir misfortune's wretched state!
While tracing Will through poortith great
And prospects drear!
And at thy Jeanie's hapless fate
She draps a tear!
Thy Scotia's sons an' maidens gay;
Her deep wild glens; her mountains grey,
Wi' misty head;
And eke her ilka sunny brae
Wi' flow'rs o'erspread!
May these thy fairy thoughts inspire,
And set thy manly saul on fire
In Scotia's praise;
And mak thee strike thy native lyre
To saftest lays!
Whan driven houseless o'er the lee;
To strike the strings o'Sympathie.
Whan griefs combine;
To start the tear in Pity's ee---
The task be thine.
THE HARP, A LEGENDARY TALE.
IN TWO PARTS.
PART I.
Hoarse dash the billows of the sea;—
But who on Kilda's dismal shore
Cries—“Have I burnt my Harp for thee!”
That howls o'er heath, and blasted lea;
Still as he eyes the lessening sail,
Cries—“Have I burnt my Harp for thee!”—
Sweet bard! where many a rival sung;
Oft hadst thou waked the tear and smile,
As soft thy Harp melodious rung:
(To love, I ween! and pity true)
Till Mora came to hear thy art;—
Mora, with eye of softening blue.
That pressed to hear his raptured strain;—
The maid, who melted at the song,
But trifled with a lover's pain:
That cherished hope, and left despair;
The promised bliss, which female guile
As oft dispersed in empty air;
Condemned by friends; by kindred prest;
Deceitful thus, in smiles arrayed,
Mora the sorrowing youth addrest:
Thou'st strung thy Harp to strains divine;—
Add but two strings of varied tone,
This heart, this yielding heart, is thine.”
Half doubtful, to his Harp applies;
And oft, in vain, he turns each air,
And oft each varying note he tries;
With new-born sounds the valley rings;—
Col claims his Mora's promised heart,
As deep he strikes the varied strings!
Since Col, enraptured, laughed at care:
And oft the tuneful Harp he blest,
That won a nymph so good and fair:
That fashion's sons would blush to name;
With softened voice, and melting sighs,
He thus accosts his peerless dame:
Three fleeting months have shed their charms,
Since first I snatched the bridal kiss,
And clasped perfection to my arms:
Must fade, if selfish and confined;—
Your friends now claim affections due;
The kindred transports of the mind!
They think of Mora with a tear:
The gale invites—at early day
To Cana's sea-beat shore we steer.”
The lark to heaven light warbling springs;
Col smiles with love, spreads quick the sail,
And sweeps with ravished heart the strings!
That light with joy the human breast!—
The tempest raves, and wildly screams
Each frighted sea-fowl to her nest.
That lately rolled serenely mild,
And dashed near Kilda's awful steep;
Col clasps his love with horror wild.
With raptured eye the morn before;
And mute and tuneless is the tongue,
That charmed so late on Bara's shore;
That glowed so late with rosy hue;
The eye, that melting joys could speak,
Is closed!—the eye of soft'ning blue.
His love and fav'rite Harp to save;
Till deep in Crona's sea-worn cove,
He bears them safe from storm and wave.
Could ebbing life's warm tide restore!—
Pale, wet, and speechless lay the fair
On Kilda's bleak and stormy shore.
With frantic cries he fondly prest;
And while a senseless corse she lay,
He strained her madly to his breast.—
The scene, when sighs first struggling stole
(Which thus by magic love he drew)
Deep lab'ring from her fluttering soul!
“Life has not fled this beauteous form!—
Protecting heaven, some aid provide!—
Shield—shield my trembler from the storm!
No storm-scaped faggot, turf, nor tree—
No shrub to yield one kindly blaze,
And warm my love to life and me!
Beat wind, and hail, and drenching rain!
Nought else remains—I'll burn my Harp!”
He cries, and breaks his Harp in twain.
To guard thee from each rival's art;
And now, though broken and unstrung,
It guards from death thy constant heart.”
One parting sigh his Harp he gave:
The storm-drenched faggots blaze through smoke,
And snatch his Mora from the grave.
PART II.
For instant terror frowned no more,
And cheerful blazed the spreading light
Round Kilda's dark and dismal shore;
And talked of death and dangers past,—
When loud the voice of wild despair
Came rushing on the midnight blast.
“Ah me! what dismal sounds draw near!—
Defend us, heaven!” with sudden start
Cried Mora, thrilled with frantic fear.
The other grasps his trusty glave;
“My Harp,” he cries, “has given thee life,
And this, that precious life shall save!”
As near the cave it shiv'ring stood;
“A stranger, shipwrecked by the storm,
Implores the gen'rous and the good;
A wretch by woes and tempests tost!—
From love, from friends, and kindred torn,
And dashed on Kilda's frightful coast!
For Lewis' isle I spread the sail;
Sweet rose the lark with cheerful lay,
And sweetly blew the flatt'ring gale!
With baneful lure and treach'rous smile!—
Were human suff'rings not complete
Till wrecked on Kilda's desert isle!
With fainting steps these cliffs I prest:—
O! may it prove a polar star,
And guide to pity's shelt'ring breast!”
As Col each opening arm extends;
“Approach, ill fated youth!” he cries,
“Here—here are none but suff'ring friends!
The flatt'ring gale, and faithless tide!—
How sweet! by zephyrs borne along,
My Harp and Mora by my side!
Behold the wreck of storm and wave.—
'Tis all that's left—my Harp so dear
I burned, that fair one's life to save!”
And sorely shook his manly frame!
His fault'ring tongue refused to speak,
Save to repeat his Mora's name—
And e'en from childhood grew more sweet;
A name, which love had rendered dear,
And sorrow taught him to repeat!
Long, long possessed her virgin heart;
But party feuds and discord came,
And forced the tend'rest pair to part.
The wretched wand'rer left his home;
From isle to isle incessant roved;—
His only wish—to idly roam!
Unaided in his slender bark;
Oft lonely steered by some faint star,
That glimmered through th' involving dark;
Or near some rock, or breaker borne;
He'd quit his helm to guiding heaven,
And sigh his cheerless lot till morn!
On some lone hill, or craggy steep;
While light'nings flashed around his head,
And eagles screamed his woes asleep.
“A wretch by woes and tempests tost,”
Till fortune, in her changeful play,
Wrecked him on Kilda's fatal coast.
'Gainst whelming wave and rocky shore,
Yon light would guide him to his love,
For whom these ceaseless ills he bore!
Behold the wreck of storm and wave!—
'Tis all that's left!—my Harp so dear
I burned, that fair one's life to save!”
Half calmed the fond youth's labouring breast.
The tale goes round—the bleak winds sigh,
And Col mistrustless sinks to rest.
A breast so gen'rous, kind, and true!
A heart still melting to distress,
To love—false fair one! and to—you.
The waves still dash with sullen roar.—
Col starts from rest—no Mora's near,
The treach'rous pair are far from shore!
He spies the white sail far at sea;
And, while the big tear fills each eye,
Cries, “Have I burned my Harp for thee!”
DONALD AND FLORA,
A BALLAD, ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND KILLED AT THE BATTLE OF SARATOGA. 1778.
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora .
Loose flowed her golden hair,
Quick heaved her bosom bare,
As thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:
Cold, cold is winter's blast:—
Haste then, O Donald, haste!
Haste to thy Flora!
Twice twelve long months are o'er
Since on a foreign shore
You promised to fight no more,
But meet me in Mora.
Maids cry with taunting sneer;
“Say, is he still sincere
To his loved Flora?”
Parents upbraid my moan;
Each heart is turned to stone;—
Ah Flora! thou'rt now alone,
Friendless in Mora!
Donald, no longer stay!—
Where can my rover stray
From his loved Flora?
Ah, sure he ne'er could be
False to his vows and me!—
Oh heav'ns! is not yonder he
Bounding o'er Mora!
Sighed the sad messenger,
“Never shall Donald mair
Meet his loved Flora!
Cold as yon mountain snow
Donald thy love lies low!
He sent me to sooth thy woe,
Weeping in Mora.
On Saratoga's plain;
Thrice fled the hostile train
From British glory.
But ah! though our foes did flee,
Sad was each victory.
Youth, love, and loyalty,
Fell far from Mora!
Donald expiring said,
“Give it to yon dear maid
Drooping in Mora.
Tell her, O Allan, tell!
Donald thus bravely fell,
And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora.
Speechless with wild despair,
Then striking her bosom bare,
Sighed out “poor Flora!
Ah Donald!—ah well-a-day!”
Was all the fond heart could say.
At length the sound died away
Feebly on Mora.
TO MRS PLEYDELL.
WITH A POT OF HONEY, During the ferment occasioned by the Popish Bill of Toleration, 1779 .
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.
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.
Well!—what's the news?—the Popish Bill.
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!
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—
Some other time—some other day.
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 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.
Since first I sought some tranquil feast;
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'—
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.
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—
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;
Of aught that severed peace and love!
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.
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 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;
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.
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.
TO ELIZA ON HER MARRIAGE.
In other words, you're now—a wife;
And let me whisper in your ear,
A wife, though fixed, has cause to fear;
For much she risks, and much she loses,
If an improper road she chooses.
Yet think not that I mean to fright you,
My plan, au contraire's to delight you;
To draw the lines where comfort reaches;
Where folly flies; where prudence teaches.
From nameless ills that may torment you:
And ere bright Hymen's torch burns faintly,
From nuptial glare conduct you gently,
Where (cured of wounds from Cupid's quiver)
A milder lustre beams for ever!
Courtship's a different thing from marriage;
And much I fear (by passion blinded)
This change at first is seldom minded.
The miss who feasts on rich romances,
And love-sick sonnets, wisely fancies
That all the end of ardent wooing
Is constant billing, constant cooing.
To doubt the truth of rapturous speeches,
She whom experience oft has schooled,
And shewn how husbands may be—ruled,
Laughs at the whims of fond sixteen,
And thinks that wedlock stamps—a queen.
Now I (though ne'er, alas! contracted)
Consider both as half distracted;
And will predict that endless strife
Must be the lot of either wife.
Not that I would infer from hence
That men of feeling, worth, or sense,
Could ever try to wound or pain
A tender breast with cold disdain;
Or e'er descend to storm and battle
At fondly-foolish female prattle.
Will fret and fume, and utter treason,
Plaguing her plain, unpuffing spouse,
About his former oaths and vows,
And tender sighs, and soft expressions,
With various comments and digressions,
I will not swear that mere connexion
Will guard the husband's warm affection;
And when affection cools, they say
The husband's apt to—go astray.
Expect as much when they are wives;
And think, when husbands cease palavering,
That love (sweet souls!) is surely wavering:
Doubt's sullen brow, and dreams accurst.—
The game goes on, ma'am's in the dumps,
And jealousy at last is trumps.
For thee, fair flower! of softest dye,
That caught so late each vagrant eye,
Still breathing sweets, still blooming gay,
Beauteous in winter as in May:
For thee this truth the muse has penned,
The muse—but more thy anxious friend:
‘Woman's bright charms were given to lure us,
They catch, 'tis true; but can't secure us.’
A virtuous woman's worth and duty,
That brings from far her daily bread .
This may be true; but as for me,
I'll draw a plainer simile,
And call a virtuous wife a gem,
Which for its worth we ne'er contemn,
Though soon its water, size, and hue,
Grow quite familiar to the view.
What then ensues? Why, faith, I'll tell ye;
We think of nothing but—the value.
Yet take this gem and lay it by
From the possessor's careless eye,
Conceal its lustre, dazzling bright,
From beaming hourly on his sight,
Whene'er he views this tempting treasure,
With eager bliss and sparkling eyes
He'll mark each new-born charm arise,
And with the joy of first possession,
Admire and rave, sans intermission!
Instead of murmurs, tears, and sighs,
And sullen moods, and scolding frays,
When lovie's absent for some days,
Let every female art conspire
To drive him from the parlour fire.
Of all the plagues in wedded life,
To teaze or to torment a wife,
The bane of matrimonial peace,
Than the tame husband always by
With prying and suspicious eye.
Mark, then, when --- goes to town,
Smile thou, when other wives would frown;
He only goes (nay, don't be angry)
To take a walk to make him hungry;
To taste awhile, unknown to care,
A change of exercise and air;
Observe the pert, the bold, the witty—
How diff'rent from his own sweet Betty!
Return impatient to his home,
No husband, but a fond bridegroom.
That wives should rather yield than sway;
To thwart a husband's fixed opinion
Is not the way to gain dominion,
For kisses order, tears reprove ,
And teach us reverence, fear, and love!—
O! born to sooth and guide the heart
With native softness, void of art!
Thou, whom nor pride nor fashion sways,
Unchanged by flattery's giddy praise;
And thou, to whom a trem'lous youth
First spoke the tale of love and truth,
Blending with passion's fond alarms
The bright'ning beam of virtue's charms—
Yet, yet attend to truth sincere!
These lines at least with smiles receive,
The last, perhaps, thy bard shall give.
To lure the trifling and the vain;
While fashion kills the tedious day
With shopping, concert, cards, and play;
While female love and youth's fair charms
Shrink from pure passion's ardent arms,
And cling to splendour's fancied bliss,
With withering age and wretchedness,
Be thine, Eliza, more refined,
The pleasures of the virtuous mind!
Which love and goodness still impart;
The tender glance, the tranquil smile,
A husband's sorrows to beguile;
The blush of joy, divinely meek,
That paints a mother's glowing cheek;
The balm that friendship still bestows;
The tear that drops for human woes!—
These, these, Eliza! light the way,
And cheer when other charms decay;
Conduct through care and worldly gloom,
And whisper joys—beyond the tomb.
TO MIRA,
WITH A BOTTLE OF IRISH USQUEBAUGH.
(For poets are but lying fellows)
Of Cupid's flames, and Cupid's darts,
And all his soft bewitching arts,
That teach the stubborn heart to move,
And tune the rudest speech to love,
I cannot say (with all respect
For powerful Love) I recollect
Where prudence, with love's pangs upon her,
Or sprightly humour, wit, or sense,
Far less the flow of eloquence,
Adorned the swain, whose heart and liver
Throbbed with the darts from Cupid's quiver.
For me (should love-sick qualms attack us),
I've much more faith in honest Bacchus,
And can't help thinking master Cupid
Oft makes us mad; but oftner stupid:
At least, if one may judge from action,
And looks that border on distraction,
The man who really feels love's passion,
Acts, speaks, and reasons—out of fashion.
‘This may be true,’ I hear you cry,
‘Yet bards, you say, can sometimes lie;
To vent 'gainst love your spleen, in rhime,
Produce some proofs, or cease to rail.’—
With all my heart!—I'll tell a tale.
And all the loves and graces playing
Around her beauteous face were seen
To deck the bloom of fair nineteen,
Young Strephon met her on the green.
Struck with her charms—to speak afraid,
By love enthralled, by love dismayed—
The senseless Strephon (keep from laughter!)
Had not the power to follow after;
But gazed, and gaped, with transports swelling,
Nor asked her name, nor marked her dwelling.
Did Strephon loud his loss deplore;
And often rang'd the fields, in vain,
To find the lovely maid again;
And often cursed his fluttering folly,
And often groaned with melancholy;
When Love and Fun one night agree,
The youthful pair should meet at—tea.
The dazzling spot where beauties centred,
And caught his Daphne's well known charms,
He lost the power of legs and arms.
That foot, which Downie taught with pride,
Graceful to bow, smoothly to slide,
Which, trying to obtain again,
His luckless skull salutes a chair;—
The ladies scream—the ladies stare!
Abashed—confused, he drops his hat,
Then broiling on his chair he sat.
Behold now Strephon in his place,
With ‘blushing honours’ on his face;
The tea's to hand;—he cannot fail
To tread on harmless Tabby's tail:
To ease her pain, puss squalls and kicks,
And in his leg her talons sticks;
And tears the hose, and eke the skin,
Till streams run down poor Strephon's shin:
Stung with his smart, I do assure ye,
He roared and capered like a fury;
Dropt cup and tea in Daphne's lap.
Eyes all inflamed, and face all ruddy;
Yet never once conclude with me
That Strephon was as drunk as he;
The man who speaks things out of season,
Or acts as if bereft of reason,
I must consider just as bad
As he who's drunk, or he who's mad.
‘Pray, sir, a truce with moralizing,
And answer this without disguising:
Did Strephon e'er his flame discover?’
No—never while a true-true lover.
Some speech to melt his Daphne's heart;
Whene'er he tries to ope his lips,
Away! each soft idea skips,
And leaves him nought but hems and haws,
And stammerings to fill up each pause;
And blushes, groans, and palpitation—
(A pretty kind of conversation!)
‘Was nothing then devised to win her?’
Nothing, till one blest day at dinner.—
‘At dinner, say you—how—when—where?’—
How keenly curious women are!
I would be brief—I hate great talkers—
You're so particular!—well!—at Walker's .
To meet at four, to part at nine:
The party choice!—for reasons shown him
He went, and drank his magnum bonum .
No fluttering fears!—no trembling joy!
And, all his groans and blushes over,
He tries once more to play the lover.
New accents reach her ravished ears:
‘And, fairest of thy sex!’ he cries,
(While passion sparkles in his eyes)
My thought by day; my dream by night;
My every hope; my every care;
My joy; my comfort; my—despair:
Ah! wherefore should I still conceal
‘What all can feign, but few can feel !’
Since first these heavenly charms were seen
By luckless Strephon on the green;
Since first with smiles and spirits gay
You hailed the merry morn of May,
What fluttering hopes have fired my brain!
What fears of torture, doubts of pain!
What pangs, what sorrows, ne'er to find
By speech, or look, my Daphne kind,
Still left a wretch to droop and languish!’
‘My God!’ the wondering fair replies
(While tears of rapture fill her eyes),
‘How, how could Daphne ever know
Her Strephon's love; her Strephon's woe!
Till this soft tale, so sweetly sung!
I never heard your tuneful tongue;
Till this fond hour, I never found
These eyes but downcast on the ground;—
You still were silent, absent, cool:—
I took you, Strephon, for—a fool.’
I hope I've proved what I intended,
A youth may sigh, and groan, and whine,
But never talk in strains divine.
For what is love, or what is beauty,
If lovers' tongues can't do their duty?
Or what are flames, or inclination,
Without the fire of inspiration?—
All, all must end in strange confusion,
Without the gift of elocution.
For me, who never had much brass,
I find vast courage in a glass;
And now that blushing's out of fashion,
Or drink I must, or breathe no passion.
And sure, if strains like mine have charmed one
When half-seas o'er, there's no great harm done.
You frowned and fretted in a pet,
Withdrew your hand, with face averted,
And thrice for me your chair deserted;
But, warmed by wine, I well remember,
Unchilled by looks, cold as December,
I prattled wit from jovial quaffing,
Till quite o'ercome, at length, with laughing,
You pardon sealed; and, generous-hearted,
Gave me your hand before we parted;
Nay, once delighted, almost swore
I ne'er talked half so well before.
I next day hurried to Gavine ,
A bottle of his Usquebaugh.
Which now I send you, with this rule,
That when I'm silent, like a fool,
Or stupid grow, or lose my temper,
For God's sake! fill me up a bumper!
Till head, and heart, and tongue improve,
And make me say whate'er you love!
This breast with true poetic fire,
To sing, in numbers strong and clear,
Thy friendship, ardent, and sincere;
Thy humour, sprightly, social, free,
Thy temper's blest serenity!
The language of thy feeling heart,
To paint in accents sweetly mild
The duties of a tender child!
And every art and virtue rare
That sooths an aged father's care;
In faith! dear Mira, to be plain,
(Though much I dread your cold disdain)
In spite of all you'd think or say,
I'd drink till tipsy every day.
THE WEE THING;
OR, MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. A BALLAD.
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea?
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming?
Sought she the burnie whar flowers the haw tree?
Dark is the blue o'her saft rolling ee;
Red, red her ripe lips! And sweeter than roses:
Whar could my wee thing wander frae me?’
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie whar flowers the haw tree.
Dark was the blue o'her saft rolling ee;
Red ware her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:—
Sweet ware the kisses that she gae to me!’
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leel heart! modest her nature!
She never looed ony, till ance she looed me.
Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee:—
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee!’
It was then your true love I met by the tree;
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet ware the kisses that she gae to me.’
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling ee!—
‘Ye's rue sair this morning, your boasts and your scorning:
Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie.’
Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling ee!
Is it my true love here that I see!’
‘O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me;
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!’
THE WHIP,
OR, A TOUCH AT THE TIMES.
Among the dissolute and gay,
Few modes were used for travel;
Unknown to whip, or spur, or boot,
Each hardy Briton trudged on foot,
Through mud, bog, dust, and gravel.
(Ah! how unlike our modern belles!)
Knew neither coach nor saddle;
No female Phaetonians then
Surpassed the boldest of our men
In gesture, look, and straddle.
Blushes, 'tis said, at her command,
Oft stole o'er beauty's features:
No wife then scorned domestic sweets;
No daughter Jehu! scoured the streets;
Good lord! what simple creatures!
Our fair ones, trained in happier schools,
For blushes, now give fashion;
Each modest virtue thrown aside,
Behold! like men, erect, astride!
They drive!—they whip!—they dash on!
When each bold lass her nag shall drive
O'er hedges, gates, and ditches!
Despise the housewife's hateful lot,
And change the useless petticoat
For boots and buckskin breeches!
Half man—half woman—half centaur,
Some grave folks dread infection:
See! virtue, trembling, flies the land!
Alas! 'gainst furious four in hand,
No common whip's protection!
‘Eliza, poor thing's, far from strong,
And yet she loves a canter;
Some fierce virago, high in blood,
May lay her sprawling in the mud,
Or in a hedge-row plant her!
Must freedom thus her charter yield?—
Has beauty no defender?
—Alas! no bosom swells with rage!—
There's nought in this bold dashing age,
But flogging to befriend her!
And victory now turns on the Whip,
The toughest whip should win;
And as we know in each hard bout,
The ‘toughest hide holds longest out,‘
I'll find—a whip of skin.’
Mad with the project in my head,
I ranged half India o'er;
But hides well beat, are seldom tough:
At last a bit of precious stuff
I found on Afric's shore.
The huge Rhinoceros careless roves,
Though growls each savage nigh:
Undaunted, armed with horn and hide,
To ball and dart he turns his side,
Unheeded as they fly.
(Again we moralize our song,)
If treachery aims the blow!
Ev'n Samson fell by female wit,
And see! in subtle treachery's pit
The mighty beast lies low.
With joy they strip his horny coat;
('Twas wond'rous to behold!)
‘By heavens!’ I cried, ‘at length I've found
A skin that's proof 'gainst mortal wound!
'Tis worth its weight in gold!’
A slice I cut with eager haste;
A tough, tenacious slip!
And, hurrying home to British land,
Gave it to Kelly, in the Strand ,
Who formed it to a WHIP.
Unconquered reign, undaunted ride,
Nor fear e'en Lade or Archer .
Some dame indeed may whoop and crack,
But let Rhinoceros touch her back,
It will both blue and starch her.
The lungs of thy half-winded mare,
How great would be thy glory!
From Linsted town thy fame would trot,
E'en to the house of Johnny Grot,
In many a marv'lous story.
How one young fair one ruled the roast,
As Pitt now rules the nation;
Made female jockies bounce and skip,
And by the power of one famed Whip,
Flogged vice from freedom's station!
Since Phill must puff, or you move slow,
Mark well a friend's direction:
Hold fast the reins of female pride,
Whip ev'ry coxcomb from your side,
To listen is—infection.
Fair candour glowing at his breast,
Confess thy pow'r of charms;
List to his tale, be frank, be kind,
Unfashioned blush to love refined,
And whip—into his arms!
TO MISS JEAN AND MISS ISABELLA MONRO,
WITH TWO BOTTLES OF THE OTTA OF ROSES.
Estranged from all he valued dear;
Shut out from beauty's bright'ning ray;
The social night, the tranquil day;
Involved in tumult's wild uproar,
And dropt on India's burning shore;
Behold a woe-worn wand'rer roam,
Far from his friends and native home!
Shall I,’ he cried, ‘new ills engage!
Shall I, by wayward fortune crossed,
Droop sorrowing on a foreign coast;
And whelmed at last in hopeless gloom,
Sink unlamented to the tomb!’
(A seraph wafted from the skies .)
‘Perish the thought! a softer ray
Yet comes to guide thy wildered way.
And fortune frowning locks her store;
What though no converse reigns refined,
And loved Miranda's left behind;
A brighter morn will yet appear
To chace the gloom and gild the year;
A milder dawn o'erspread the grove,
A warmer theme attune to love;
When freedom's sun bright o'er the main
Illumes fair Albion's cliffs again;
And glittering high on mountain hoar,
Proclaims afar loved Scotia's shore;
Where friendship waits in smiles arrayed,
To bind the wounds that fate has made;
And sympathy, with melting eye,
To catch the tale, and heave the sigh;
Her dark'ning shade o'er suff'rings past.
And henceforth, wand'rer, cease to grieve;
For know, in this a virtue rare,
(A passport likewise to the fair.)
Can cheer dejection's languid gloom,
And rich, to beauty yield perfume!
Guard then this treasure, and when fate
Conducts thee safe, or soon, or late,
Where Forth's meanderings gently glide
Through fields that wave their cultured pride,
There, while again thou wander'st o'er
Each dear loved spot, oft trod before;
Survey'st around the pictured scene;
Or view'st sublime her castled towers
From A---'s sheltering bowers;
Where social mirth wan care beguiles,
'Midst female virtues, female smiles;
While hope's fond joys past sorrows heal,
Let breasts like thine fresh ardour feel,
To mark each virtue as it springs,
And as the muse impassioned sings,
On maids of worth this gift bestow,
A---; a---; a Monro.’
The welcome treasure to my breast;
Conducts me safe to Scotia's shore!
Till free from tumult's madd'ning strife,
Once more I taste a poet's life;
And female smiles to soothe and cheer,
And love to cheat the lingering year:
Here rest,’ I cried, ‘till heaven bestows
Your ---'s, your ---'s, your Monro's!’
The canvas spread, Eolus blew!
From India's shores and burning skies,
O'er waves the Gibraltar flies.
Blow, blow, ye breezes! oft I said,
While seas the ling'ring voyage delayed;
While sleep her balmy rest denied:
Yet, midst my watchings, cares, and rest,
Still clasped the treasure to my breast!
A tempest round a wand'rer's head,
Arrived at length, where tumults cease,
And all within is hope and peace,
The warning seraph whispers low,
‘Remember Worth, and each Monro!’
To gentler breasts thy balm impart!
Go!—to yon social bowers repair,
Far softer forms thy sweets shall share!
Round Jane or Bella's snowy neck,
Tell them from me, no sweets refined
Can match the tender female mind;
Nor Persia's rose , that blooms so fair,
With virtue's charms can e'er compare;
No! nor rich Ceylon's spicy gales,
Nor famed Arabia's scented vales,
A balm so grateful can diffuse,
To wake and animate the muse,
As that which shook from friendship's wing,
Attunes the lyre's according string,
And prompts e'en bards like me to sing!
Alluding to the last naval engagement between Sir Edward Hughes and M. Suffrein in the East Indies, during which the Author was on board his Majesty's ship the Gibraltar.
GRANDEUR:
AN ODE.
Pinus; et celsæ graviore casu
Decidunt turres, feriuntque summos
Fulmina montes.
Hor.
Dunmait capt with snow;
While humbler smiles, in vernal green,
The sun-clad vale below:
Gay spring her cheering task performs,
Regardless of the wintry storms
And, sheltered from the mountain gale,
Secure, smooth glides the winding sail
Down Forth's meandering tide.
Of man's contrasted lot!
The storms that whirl round Grandeur's gate;
The peasant's sheltered cot;
Disdainful pride, with wintry brow;
Rough labour, jocund at his plough,
Still cheered by health's unclouded beam;
While, safe from luxury's whelming tide,
Peace, hope, and resignation, glide
Down life's untroubled stream.
Still moral pictures rise:
Ambition, dashed by fortune's wind,
When tow'ring to the skies;
Exalted beauty, doomed to move
In climes unwarmed by genial love,
Tost by the storms of sordid strife!—
While nurtured in some vale obscure,
The humbler fair one blooms secure
The mistress and the wife!
The tow'ring Plane arose;
Proud, o'er Strevlina's height sublime
It waved its mantling boughs!
The trav'ller spied it from afar,
And, raptured, wondered where it grew;—
Fond fancy placed its magic height
Mid regions streaked with golden light
Through Heaven's ethereal blue!—
That courts the southern breeze,
The humbler Hawthorn's doomed to blow
Mid kindred shrubs and trees!
Obscure, its balmy sweets diffuse,
Unmarked, save by the moral muse,
Ah! what is Grandeur's splendid show!—
Ambition, mark!—the Plane laid low !
The Hawthorn left to bloom.
The cutting down of this beautiful tree (a circumstance that gave general dissatisfaction) occasioned the present ode.
MAY-DAY;
OR, THE DISCOVERY.
A PASTORAL.
IN THE MANNER OF CUNNINGHAM.
Ye virgins! how charming her air!
Haste! cull her fresh flow'rets dew-dropping at dawn,
And chaplets entwine for your hair!
Yes! weave the gay garland! each moment improve!
Youth's pleasures, like Spring, fleet away!
Life has its soft season—that season is Love.
—Ah! taste its fond joys while 'tis May.
How blessed! for a fair one was by;
I marked, as she welcomed the Spring's opening pride,
The rapture that beamed in her eye:
Her fav'rite young lambkins ran bleating around,
(Their fleeces were whiter than snow!)
The cliffs, crowned with oakwood, returned the soft sound;
The still lake gleamed placid below.
With lambkins and flocks bleating nigh;
In my straw-covered cottage, though humble, yet neat,
I could live—and contented would die!
Yon lake teach complaint to be still;
Health, mirth, peace, and temperance, crown the repast,
And freedom—bound light o'er the hill!’
Half whispered a wish was untold;—
‘And would my fair shepherdess deem it a crime
If Edwin were guard to the fold?’
‘I told my soft wishes ,’ she sweetly replied,
(Ye virgins! her voice was divine!)
‘I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond shepherd!—I'm thine.’
Her candour so sweetly expressed!
I gazed on her beauties as blushing she smiled,
And clasped the loved maid to my breast!
The primrose in clusters breathed fragrance around,
And witnessed the vows that were given;
The lark, that sat listening, soar'd swift from the ground,
And warbled the contract in—heaven!
We've chose for our humble retreat,
Where Teath's soften'd murmurs raise musings divine,
'Tis there my love's lambkins shall bleat!
And shelter from care's wintry blast;
Content, decked in smiles, spread her pastoral store,
And my fairest prepare the repast!—
Though splendour withholds her false gleam,
If pleased with our little, and strangers to pain,
Life glides placid by like yon stream?
While Health, heavenly goddess! smiles buxom and gay,
Shall we murmur that wealth comes not nigh?
When thy charms, Independence! thus prompt the free lay,
And the muse, lark-like, soars to the sky!
AN ELEGY
On the sudden death of a beautiful young boy, in Jamaica, attended by the singular occurrence of a nightingale perching on the tree under which he was interred, and singing sweetly during the funeral service.
Cut down the flow'ret fair to view!
Pale gleamed the light of yonder moon,
When pest'lence shed her deadly dew !
The sun refulgent glowed at noon;
But nought the drooping flower could cheer.—
Ah! wherefore drooped the flower so soon!
Where late he joyed with sports and play)
They dig his grave; there, lowly laid,
Sleep's Campbell's silent senseless clay!
That close, loved boy! thy funeral gloom!
The doleful dirge, and frantic cry
Of Afric's mourners round thy tomb !
Ye weeping parents, dry the tear.
See! Philomela joins the train,
And chants a requiem o'er his bier.
Far from her mate, and haunts of even;
She comes, an herald from the sky,
To greet the cherub soul to heaven!
At soft'ning eve, or fervent noon,
Here may he heave the sigh, and say,
‘Ah, wherefore droop'd the flower so soon!’
In Jamaica it is customary, on the death of a white person, for all the domestic negroes to attend the funeral. If the deceased has been a particular favourite, it is usual for the female slaves to raise, after the interment, a funeral song or dirge, over the grave. This consists of loud and dismal lamentations, chiefly expressive of the good qualities of the deceased; such as, ‘O my good massa!’ ‘O my dear massa!’ accompanied with clapping of hands, and violent gesticulations of sorrow.
EPITAPH. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES GRAHAM, ESQ. LATE OF THE PARISH OF WESTMORELAND, JAMAICA.
IN TESTIMONY OF AFFECTION, AND AS A TRIBUTE TO THE VIRTUES OF THE BEST OF MEN, AND THE KINDEST OF BROTHERS, THIS MAUSOLEUM IS ERECTED BY JOHN GRAHAM, OF THREE-MILE RIVER, JAMAICA. ANNO. 1798.
Accept, loved shade! of him whose breathless clayNo sigh returns to aught that grief can say;
Accept, loved shade! this monument of woe;
The last sad gift thy friend can now bestow!—
Steal from the crowd, and court sepulchral gloom;
Clasp to his heart thy cold untimely urn ,
And weep thy virtues—never to return!
Nor can the muse (that muse thou lov'dst to hear)
Repress the sigh, or check the starting tear;
From Britain's shore;—across the Atlantic wave,
She comes, to vent her sorrows at thy grave;
With trembling hand inscribe thy funeral stone,
And with a brother's woes record her own.
This amiable, honourable, and accomplished man, was unfortunately killed in the mistaken defence of a character which no calumny could have injured; and by a ruffian whose slander no man of worth ought to have regarded.
ON THE DEATH OF LIEUT. GEN. SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY,
Killed at the Battle of Alexandria, in Egypt, 21st March, 1801.
How long must Pity shrink with pain;
Turn, shuddering pale, from shore to shore,
And weep her patriot heroes slain!
(Just tribute to the good and brave)
Britannia, wrapt in sable woe,
Bends o'er her Abercromby's grave.
‘From blood protect thy final doom!
Gild thy last eve with milder skies,
And lay thee gently in the tomb?’
Nursed in the school where glory's won,
Rejoicing in the din of arms,
Soon Valour hailed her darling son:
That led to honour's splendid goal;
Saw, flashed round Pompey's Pillar, gleam
The parting light'nings of his soul!
Fond hope with mellowing pencil drew;
Pourtrayed the scene, when laurel'd rest,
In peace, enjoys the fav'rite few!
Fame twined the cypress with the bay;—
‘Be this,’ she cried, ‘the laurel crown
To deck my hero's parting day!
Unhonoured drop the valiant, dead;—
Bright as his day shall beam the close—
He dies in glory's patriot bed!’
As high the trophied urn she rears;
‘He lives in Virtue's bursting sighs,
His Country's praise!—his Country's tears!’
ON THE DEATH OF DR DAVID DOIG,
MASTER OF THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL, STIRLING.
In furnishing materials for the last edition, the Author incautiously gave some lines, hastily composed for insertion in the Edinburgh Newspapers, on the death of his venerable friend Dr Doig. A wish to rectify this mistake, and at the same time to leave some memorial of so good a man, and so eminent a scholar, induced him to substitute, what he flatters himself will be found, at least, less exceptionable in composition, and more characteristic of the person commemorated.
The pale moon gleams faint on the grave;
The voice of affliction tunes friendship's sad strain,
Re-echoed thus back from the cave.—
Enthusiasts! who pant for a name!
Yon village bell, tolled by the mandate of fate,
Proclaims—what avails lettered fame!
Fond, smiling, unlocked all her store;
Called genius to brighten the ardour of thought,
And light paths untrodden before .
Entwined their loved garlands of old;
He's gone! to whose mem'ry, inscribed on his tomb,
They warbled the truths which he told .
To these haunts will ye never return?—
Mute! save when Remembrance, with all her dark train,
And Friendship thus wail o'er the urn!
The sunshine of life's fleeting ray)
Record what, if drooping, perchance may revive
The minstrel of some future day;
A solace to soothe virtue's moan;
Transmit, what indignant, the muse shall record
For meek, modest Virtue alone!
How Genius bloomed rich in the shade;
Unsun'd, flower'd neglected, through thicket and thorn,
And wafted her sweets round the glade:
Fourscore smiling springs hailed the bloom;—
Nipt at length, cold neglect felt remorse, tinged with shame,
And sculptured the cause on the tomb
This ingenious and profound scholar, during a long and laborious life, dedicated the spare hours of professional duties to the study of ancient philology, history, and metaphysics, which, from the uncommon extent of his talents and erudition, have derived considerable elucidation. For the sake of the learned world, it were much to be wished, that these curious and valuable MSS. now in the possession of his relatives, were secured from accident, and presented to the public.—The London booksellers would find their account in it.
As a testimony of Dr Doig's literary talents, and as a mark of attention to the dead, the Magistrates of Stirling directed that his own Epitaph, written in Latin verse, should be inscribed on his tombstone. The Epitaph, as originally composed by Dr Doig, comprehends the eight last lines that follow.
MORTALES HIC POSITÆ SUNT EXUVIÆ DAVIDIS DOIG, LL.D. SS.R. et A.S. EDIN. SCHOLÆ LATINÆ APUD STERLINENSES PER XL. ANNOS PREPOSITÆ OBIIT 17 KALEND. APRIL. A.D. 1800. ET ANNO ÆTATIS LXXXII.
Edidici quædam, perlegi plura, notaviPaucula; cum Domino mox peritura suo.
Lubrica Pieriæ tentaram præmia palmæ,
Credulus, ingenio heu nimis alta meo,
Defuncto, famam ruituro crescere saxo,
Posse putem, vivo, quæ mihi nulla fuit?
Scire velis qualis fuerim, lux ultima prodet
Lux eadem prodet tu quoque qualis eras.
PROLOGUE:
Written at the request of the Managers of the Public Kitchen at Edinburgh, for the Benefit of the Poor, 1801.
Their baneful influence o'er a suff'ring world;
Broke the firm bands of kindred joys asunder,
And left in want the wretch to weep, and—wonder;
Thrilled with despair;—unfriended, and oppressed,
With hagard eye, pale Poverty, distressed,
Roamed the lone wild, a wretched life to save,
And, shivering, sunk in famine's darkening cave!—
There, sad, she pined, and wailed her hopeles moan,
Earth her damp pillow! and her bed—cold stone!
Nymph of the melting heart and soothing tongue)
Swift from yon starry vault's ethereal blue,
To want's dark cell with pitying ardour flew!
The fainting mourner waked—as from the tomb;
Saw the sweet harbinger of joy again
Steal on soft tip-toe to the bed of pain;
O'er the cold breast her mantling vestments spread;
Wipe the damp brow, and raise the drooping head;
Pour the rich cordial, trickling to the heart;
Brace the lax fibre, and new strength impart;
Kindle fond hope; and, beck'ning with a smile,
Lure, while she flew to Britain's fostering isle!
The poor, if virtuous, never know despair:
Warmed by her beams, each bosom learns to glow,
And throb, and feel—the sympathy of woe!
From ocean's gen'rous sons (in fame enrolled)
To Scotia's mountains, and her patriots bold;—
Alike her magic power o'er land and wave:
—The flame of pity ever warms the brave!
Oh! could its light but harmonize the breast,
And guide again the jarring world to rest!
Spread with mild radiance far from shore to shore,
Till friendship binds, and discord's heard no more!
Till candour starts at reason's temperate call,
And mercy wafts humanity—to all!
This night, where Charity's celestial flame
Gilds with mild lustre Scotia's annalled fame;
Glows in soft blushes on each fair one's cheek;
This night! indeed, would mock the flowers of rhime,
And stamp an era for recording time!
Than aid the wretched, and repel despair;
To light the lamp in Poverty's dark cell,
And lend new strength to those who—struggle well;
—Enough for us! expiring worth to save,
And cheer the path of virtue to the grave!
JACK AND NANCY,
A SEA SONG.
When the mountain-waves rage, can you swing in a hammock?
As the winds roar aloft, and rude billows dash o'er us,
Can my Nancy sleep soundly amid the wild chorus?
O yes! my dear Jack! I can lie in a hammock,
When the mountain-waves rage, can sleep sound in a hammock:
Rude billows will rock me, when love smiles to cheer me,
If thy slumber's sweet, Jack, no dangers can fear me!
The breakers a-head, and the boatswain loud swearing;
When the main-yard dips deep, and white billows break o'er us;
Will my Nancy not shrink then amid the dread chorus?
O no! my loved lad! when such dangers are near me,
My Jack's kindly whispers will sooth me—will cheer me,
A kiss snatched in secret, amid the dread horror,
Will hush the rude chorus, and still every terror.
The top-sails all split, and the top-masts down crashing!
When all hands spring aloft, and no lover to cheer her,
Will my Nancy not shrink when such dangers are near her?
The top-sails all split, and the top-masts down falling,
In watching your dangers, my own will pass over!—
In prayers for your safety no fears I'll discover!
The matches all lighted; the French foe fast nearing,
Can you stand to your gun, while pale death drops around you?
—'Tis then! my sweet Nancy! new fears will confound you!
No! No! my dear Jack! to these fears love's a stranger!
When you fight by my side, I'll defy every danger;
If you fall! Nancy dies!—if you live, love will cheer me!
While the mountain-seas dash round, sleep sound in a hammock!
With love such as thine, who would dread war or weather?—
While we live, we shall love; when we fall—fall together!
This verse (in singing) to be repeated by both at the same time, with the slight alteration of substituting lad for lass by the female singer.
THE PLEASURES OF AMBITION:
OR, UNE REVERIE A LA CORSE, 1804.
ON AN IMPERIAL CORONATION.
Deep growled the threat'ning thunder!
As from the mud, besmeared with blood,
Up towered a thing of wonder!—
Its head was black, its face was chalk,
Each eye, though sunk, was gleaming;
Its sleepless brain, with racking pain,
Knew neither rest nor dreaming!
Of scorching brimstone blazing!
The dismal glare made myriads stare,
But all were sad, while gazing!
Its left hand prest (by way of rest)
On scattered crowns and sceptres;
Close at its back, in horrid clack,
Grinned fiends, or guilt's inspectors.
Ye grumblers! dread displeasure!
My height, ye see—crouch!—bend the knee!
Nor dare that height to measure!
Kings,—kiss the rod!—I move a god!
A god of self-creation:
Should one rebel, by heaven and hell!
I'll send him to damnation:
'Tis meet you all were civil!
If one complains, bound fast in chains,
I'll send him to the devil.—
What!—doubt my power!—behold the tower
Of human height and splendour!
Popes, late our foe, now kiss my toe,
And tremble at my grandeur.—
For unprescribed possession?
Shall not my nod secure the road
To plunder and oppression?
Shall reptiles dare, enleagued, to war
And meditate correction;
Or dream to curb what may disturb
Their safety or protection?
Pretends to check dominion!
A Russian bear attempts in air
To soar on eagle pinion!
A Swedish owl presumes to growl,
And form a northern faction!
A Turkish mute dares to dispute
My title and subjection!—
With all their schemes nefarious!
As for John Bull—when reason's cool,
I think each plan precarious.
Yet John loves beef; his dread and grief
Is want of constant stuffing;
Should famine come, Defection's hum
Would soon drown naval puffing!—
Would damp this purse-proud nation!
Then should kind gales, with flowing sails,
Waft us to rich sensations!—
My sallad boys would taste new joys!
Each raptured sound would tell us,
That what half-feasts these grumbling beasts,
Would stuff my poor starved fellows!—
Through perils scorns dejection!
Each home-loved rill, and heath-crowned hill,
Bind fast his warm affection:—
Nor famine's gloom, nor war's death-doom,
Can damp his dauntless valour:
A vet'ran Scot spoiled Egypt's plot!
Ah! pangs!—that was a nailer!
Avaunt! and cease tormenting!—
I know it all!—ye can't appal!
I see black storms fermenting;
And though I fear yon Russian bear
May yet breed some disaster,
And oft times think this northern link
Will prove a blistering plaster,—
And cautious watch Batavi,
Prepared for blows, I'll make these foes
Ere long, cry out—peccavi.—
Expences flow!—my treasury's low!
(No plunder makes me richer!)
I dread a drain!—no longer Spain!
Ah! morbleu!—there's a twitcher!—
Hence, phantoms, and chimeras!
Brains racked like mine should ne'er divine
When plagues and storms are near us.
Since crimes have shed, on this crowned head,
Such undreamt power and splendour,
To crimes I turn!—let kingdoms burn,
And scorch up to a cinder!
By this I've gained dominion.
Should Fate rebel, secured in hell,
I've one firm bond of union!
Old Nick and I have learnt to vie,
Which should excel the other;
Old Nick and me can't disagree,
He owns me for his brother.
From him I learnt each lesson;
When all hope's flown, firm on his throne,
I'm sure of joint possession.—
Up then, proud heart!—no more I start:
To valour pride is given!
Better in hell (as poets tell)
To reign, than serve in heaven!’
Deep roared each blast and billow!
He sunk opprest, to find some rest,
But sleep still fled his pillow!—
Learn hence, ye great! mid pomp and state,
What lawless power embitters,
Not all that's high can peace supply;
Not all is gold that glitters!
THE LINKS O'FORTH:
OR, A PARTING PEEP AT THE CARSE O'STIRLING.
He loved meek solitude, and softened gloom;—
STERLING'S CAMBUSCAN, V. 304.
[Yes! I've perused, with new, increased delight]
The following elegant Lines were sent to the Author by the ingenious Writer of the Hindoo Rajah, Modern Philosophers, &c. on reading the Links o'Forth, in Manuscript.
Have reperused, each simply flowing line:
Traced the known landscape bursting on the sight,
With all its varied hues and haunts divine!
Each long-lost beauty meets my raptured eye;
Youth's former visions rise in every glade,
While tears delicious mix with memory's sigh.
Perform the critic's cold fastidious part;
Mark what perchance the pedant might displease,
When nature's nameless charms attack the heart!
Nor classic laws for measured numbers know;
Enough, to feel the bosom's raptured thrill,
The tear that starts—the heart's spontaneous glow!
These! these the poet's excellence proclaim;
And these, while truth and nature warm the breast,
Shall deck Forth's artless bard with wreaths of fame.
THE LINKS O'FORTH.
O'Strevlin's peerless plain the pride;
How pleased alang thy verdant side,
Whar floweries spring,
The muse her untaught numbers tried,
And learnt to sing!
Ilk trace o'glowing passion loo'd.
How aft aside thy silver flood,
Unseen, alane,
The bard, enrapt in pensive mood,
Has poured the strain!
His artless lyre he trembling strang;
Close to his beating heart it hang,
While glen, and grove,
And craig, and echoing valley, rang
Wi' fervent love.—
By wimpling burn, or broomy brae?
Wasting, I ween, the live-lang day
In am'rous rhime;
The hour will come, thou'lt sigh, and say,
What loss o'time!
In pleasures suited to its age?
To catch the tids o'life is sage,
Some joys to save:
Wha kens the fights he's doomed to wage
This side the grave!
And beek a wee in love's warm blink,
Is wiser far, I'm sure, than think
O'distant harm,
Whan eild and cauld indiff'rence shrink
Frae pleasure's charm.
Ance mair do thou the song inspire;—
Ah! check nae yet the glowing fire,
Though health divine,
And youth, and pleasure's fond desire,
Fast, fast decline!
First seized his bosom, fluttering warm;
Ere care yet came, wi' dread alarm,
Or friendship's guile;
Or fortune, wi' uplifted arm,
And treach'rous smile.
Ilk verse descriptive o'the morn;
Whan round Forth's Links o'waving corn,
At peep o'dawn,
Frae broomy know to whitening thorn
He raptured ran:
The whins bloom sweet on Achil brae;
There, when inspired by lofty ray,
He'd tak his flight;
And towering climb, wi' spirits gay,
Demyit's height.
And sweeter too the vale below!
Whar Forth's unrivall'd windings flow
Through varied grain,
Brightening, I ween, wi' glittering glow
Strevlina's plain!
The landscape stretching on the ee
Frae Grampian heights down to the sea,
A dazzling view!
Corn, meadow, mansion, water, tree,
In varying hue.—
That decks, sweet plain! thy cultured face;
Aft down the steep he'd tak a race,
Nor, rinning, flag,
Till up he'd climb, wi' rapid pace,
Yon ‘Abbey craig.’
The skelloch bright 'mang corn sae green,
The purpled pea, and speckled bean;
A fragrant store!
And vessels sailing, morn and e'en,
To ‘Stirling's shore.’
To yonder castled height repair,
Whar youth's gay sports, relaxed frae care,
Cheat learning's toils,
And round her Doig's classic chair
Fond Genius smiles!
Frae wine, and mirth, and cards, he'd flee;
Here too, unskilled, sweet poesy!
He woo'd thy art—
Alas! nor skill nor guide had he,
Save warmth o'heart!
Nae tongue his peacefu' joys can tell,
Whan, crooning quietly by himsel,
He framed the lay
On Gowland's whin-beflowered hill
And rocky brae.
As fast the welcome numbers flowed!
How smooth the plying barge then rowed
Frae shore to shore!
How saft the kye in King's Park lowed
At milking hour!
Frae busy labour's rural thrang!
That stal the upland heights amang,
And, echoing, spread
Owre Castle, Butts, and Knott, alang
The Backwalk shade.—
Whan youth and love are on the wing;
Whan morn's fresh gales their fragrance bring,
Wi' balmy sough,
And e'ening paints (how green in spring!)
The ‘braes o'Tough!’
Will Airthrie's banks and woods appear;
And crouse Craigforth and princely Keir,
That crowns the scene;
And Allan water, glittering near
Its bleaching green.
Where Taste and Home delighted strayed;
What time? when Lear and Genius fled
Frae bar and town,
To Teath's clear stream, that babbling play'd
By Castle Down.—
And Embro' castle, distant grey ;
Wi' Alva, screened near Aichil brae,
'Mang grove and bower!
And rich Clackmannan, rising gay,
Wi' woods and tower;
But maist at e'ening blushing mild,
As owre the western cliffs sae wild
O'Lomond's height,
The sun, in setting glory, smiled
Wi' purple light!
He'd court some solitude obscure;
Or round Cam'skenneth's ancient tower,
Whar winds Forth's stream,
He'd wander, meditate, and pour
This moral theme:—
Mild owre the garden's fading bloom!
Dim flits the bat athwart the tomb,
On leathern wing;
—Hark! what bemoaned the slaughtered doom
O'Scotia's king?—
Unmindfu' o'the monarch's fate:
Whar, Grandeur, now thy regal state?—
Unmarkt!—and gone!
Nor sculptured verse records thy date,
Nor moss-grown stone!’
Aft graced yon castle's princely brow,
Whan Scotland's kings, wi' patriot glow,
Delighted, woo'd
Strevlina's fertile fields below,
And winding flood!
Whase rural charms sae aft conspired
To calm the raging breast, whan fired
'Gainst lawless power,
And yield, mid social sweets retired,
Life's happier hour!
To drap the King at friendship's board;
To draw frae Love's delicious hoard
Her honeyed sweet!
And chain fierce Valour's lofty lord
At beauty's feet.
Owre lawns, and heath-bloomed mountains borne;
Wi' hound, and hawk, and bugle horn,
And shouting thrang;
While Sauchie's glens, beflowered wi' thorn,
The notes prolang;
At tilts and tournaments o'weir,
Whar mony a valiant knight and peer
Displayed their skill,
To courtly beauty, blushing near,
On ‘Lady's hill.’
Strevlina's craigs and valley ring;
Blithe roamed the courtier and the king
By Fortha's flood,
Till faction soared on raven wing,
Bedrapt wi' blood!
Fled court, and plain, and cheerless farm!—
Rebellion loud, wi' dread alarm,
Skreighed wild her cry,
And murder dark, wi' dagger'd arm,
Stood watching by!
Sad source o'Scotland's wars and wae!
Not guiltless power, here changed to clay ,
Could calm thy strife,
Nor ward thy boiling bloody fray
And butchering knife!
Lang felt oppression's tyrant doom;
Though Science, mid the captive gloom,
And Genius bright,
And Fancy, at her fairy loom,
Shot radiant light!—
Thy rebel rage 'gainst regal sway!—
Not Flodden-Field, whase fatal day
Brought dool and care,
Whan Scotland's Flowers were wed away ,
To bloom nae mair;
Nor Mary's tears, nor beauteous face ,
Could stop, fell fae! thy furious pace
Bestained wi' crime,
Till Stuart's royal, luckless race!
Fled Scotia's clime.
Whan Scotia, sad, wi' tearfu' ee,
Saw, frae her pine-waved cliffs on hie,
And aiken bowers,
Her king, and independence, flee
Strev'lina's towers!
A blaze round Wallace' helmed head,
As bauld in freedom's cause he led
His patriot train,
And dyed these blood-drenched surrows red
Wi' hostile slain!
Bright, bright! whan (Edward's host ow'rthrown)
High, on yon proud hill's Standard Stone ,
Thy banners flew;
While Freedom, loud, in raptured tone,
Her clarion blew!
Brak forging Thraldom's galling chain;
Led Ceres, wi' her laughing train,
And golden store,
Round Bannockburn's ensanguined plain,
And Carron's shore.
Whar Fingal fought, and ay ow'rcame ;
Whar Ossian wak'd, wi' kindling flame,
His heaven-taught lays,
And sang his Oscar's deathless fame
At Dunipáce !
Which Scotia's sons delight to hear!—
Names, that the brave will lang revere
Wi' valour's sigh!
—Dear to the Muse!—but doubly dear
To Liberty!’—
Aft sighed and sang the pensive wight!—
Reckless, alas! o'fortune's blight,
Or warldly blame,
He'd muse, and dream, till dark midnight,
Then daunder hame!—
Ye stately towers! whar morn's first beam
Mild glittering glints wi' gowden gleam!
Yours was the crime:
Ye first enticed his youth to dream
In thriftless rhime!
That led to Nature's varied store;
And taught him early to adore
Her tempting smile,
Whether on India's pictured shore
Or Britain's isle.—
Whar patriots fell, but never fled!
Ye plains, wi' smiling plenty clad,
A lang adieu!
A dark'ning cloud, wi' ills ow'rspread,
Obscures the view!
Cries, ‘haste ye!—haste!—break aff the strain:—
Strevlina's towers and peerless plain
Ye'll ne'er review!’—
Dear haunts o'youth, and love's saft pain,
A last adieu!
Henry Home, Lord Kames, one of the Senators of the College of Justice, and author of many ingenious and learned performances.
Edinburgh castle, though distant 35 miles from Stirling, is seen from the Castle-hill in a favourable day.
Ben Lomond, the highest of the Grampian mountains, that bound the Carse of Stirling to the north-west.
James III. murdered in the village of Bannockburn, after the battle fought with his rebellious nobles, under the command of the Duke of Rothsay, his own son. He was buried near the remains of his queen, in the abbey church of Cambuskenneth, 1488.
James V. was so affected with the unfortunate and disgraceful affair at Solway Frith, near the river Esk, that he died a few days afterwards, literally of a broken heart.
The Poetical Works of Hector MacNeill | ||