Peter Cornclips A Tale of Real Life; With Other Poems & Songs, By Alexander Rodger |
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| MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. |
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 | Peter Cornclips |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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MY COUNTRY.
My Country, my country!—O there is a charm
And spell, in that sound, which must every heart warm:
Let us burn at the line, let us freeze at the pole,
Pronounce but that sound, and it thrills through the soul.
And spell, in that sound, which must every heart warm:
Let us burn at the line, let us freeze at the pole,
Pronounce but that sound, and it thrills through the soul.
And where lies the charm in that all-potent sound,
That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found?
And why is our country—the land of our birth,—
The sweetest—the loveliest spot upon earth?
That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found?
And why is our country—the land of our birth,—
The sweetest—the loveliest spot upon earth?
Say; is it in climate? In soil? Or in sky?
In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye?
In rich golden harvests? In mines of bright ore?
It may be in these—but there's still something more:
In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye?
In rich golden harvests? In mines of bright ore?
It may be in these—but there's still something more:
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The deeds of our fathers, in times that are gone,
Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won;
Their struggles for freedom, the toils they endured,
The rights and the blessings for us they procured:
Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won;
Their struggles for freedom, the toils they endured,
The rights and the blessings for us they procured:
Our music, our language, our laws, our great men,
Who have raised themselves high by the sword, or the pen;
Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms,
Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms:
Who have raised themselves high by the sword, or the pen;
Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms,
Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms:
The dreams of our childhood, the scenes of our youth,
When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth;
Our friends, homes and altars, our substance, tho' small,
And one lovely object, the sweetener of all:—
When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth;
Our friends, homes and altars, our substance, tho' small,
And one lovely object, the sweetener of all:—
From these, and ten thousand endearments beside,
From these springs the charm, that makes country our pride;
And what, wanting these, would a paradise be?
A waste—a dark cell—a lone rock in the sea.
From these springs the charm, that makes country our pride;
And what, wanting these, would a paradise be?
A waste—a dark cell—a lone rock in the sea.
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The adventurous emigrant launched on the main,
Who goes, to behold not his country again,
What painful reflections must rush through his mind,
As he takes the last look of the shores left behind;—
Who goes, to behold not his country again,
What painful reflections must rush through his mind,
As he takes the last look of the shores left behind;—
The long cherished spot where to manhood he grew,
The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew;
Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted,
The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted;
The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew;
Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted,
The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted;
A country before him, all strange and unknown,
Where no heart in unison beats with his own
Such thoughts, through his mind, that sad moment will rush,
While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush.
Where no heart in unison beats with his own
Such thoughts, through his mind, that sad moment will rush,
While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush.
But the merchant or warrior, absent afar
From his country, engaged in her commerce or war,
Returning, at last, what a flood of delight
Fills his soul, when his country first breaks on his sight.
From his country, engaged in her commerce or war,
Returning, at last, what a flood of delight
Fills his soul, when his country first breaks on his sight.
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How cheering the hope! that he shortly will meet,
The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet;
And while his heart bounds toward home's hallowed spot,
Even Watch the old house-dog is then not forgot.
The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet;
And while his heart bounds toward home's hallowed spot,
Even Watch the old house-dog is then not forgot.
But, Oh! it is only the man who is free,
That can boast, “I've a country that smiles upon me;”
The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan,
Alas, they can scarce call their country their own.
That can boast, “I've a country that smiles upon me;”
The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan,
Alas, they can scarce call their country their own.
The Laplander, coursing his deserts of snow,
Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge and his bow,
On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam,
No country on earth is like Lapland—to him.
Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge and his bow,
On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam,
No country on earth is like Lapland—to him.
Though scanty his fare, yet, content with his lot,
The terrors of slavery trouble him not;
He bounds free as air, o'er his own native snows,
Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes.
The terrors of slavery trouble him not;
He bounds free as air, o'er his own native snows,
Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes.
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But the ill-fated negro, from home rudely torn,
And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne;
How frantic the grief of his untutored mind,
While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind:
And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne;
How frantic the grief of his untutored mind,
While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind:
Pent up in a dungeon, deprived of fresh air,
The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair;
Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath,
And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death:
The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair;
Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath,
And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death:
Now see him, poor wretch, to the slave market brought,
Like the ox of the stall, to be sold—to be bought,
Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed;
Oh, God! was't for this, that the negro was made?
Like the ox of the stall, to be sold—to be bought,
Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed;
Oh, God! was't for this, that the negro was made?
A captive—a slave, on a far foreign coast,
Where now is his country?—To him it is lost;
A sad recollection is all he has left
Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft.
Where now is his country?—To him it is lost;
A sad recollection is all he has left
Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft.
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But the time may arrive yet, when he, even he!
Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free;
How glorious to see him then, treading the sod,
Erect—independent—the image of God.
Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free;
How glorious to see him then, treading the sod,
Erect—independent—the image of God.
O, Haytians! how noble a cause have you won,
You now have a country, who lately had none,
The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke,
And scorned, now alike, are the tyrant and yoke.
You now have a country, who lately had none,
The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke,
And scorned, now alike, are the tyrant and yoke.
The children of Judah in warfare o'ercome,
And borne away captive afar from their home,
By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan,
While they wept their lost country, laid waste and o'erthrown:
And borne away captive afar from their home,
By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan,
While they wept their lost country, laid waste and o'erthrown:
Their Zion consumed, and their Temple defiled,
Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled;
Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained,
By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned;
Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled;
Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained,
By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned;
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No wonder, then, Judah's sad children deplored,
The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword,
For, while mock'd and insulted in bondage they lay,
What Temple—what Zion—what Country had they?
The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword,
For, while mock'd and insulted in bondage they lay,
What Temple—what Zion—what Country had they?
Not so, the brave Greeks, when obliged to retreat,
From their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet,
Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap,
Say where was their Athens?—'Twas then on the deep:
From their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet,
Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap,
Say where was their Athens?—'Twas then on the deep:
Yes, they had a country, for still they were free,
To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee;
Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in flame,
Their fleet, and their freedom, were country to them.
To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee;
Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in flame,
Their fleet, and their freedom, were country to them.
O, glorious example, by patriots of old,—
Would to God that their sons were but now half so bold!
One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands,
Were sufficient to wither the whole turban'd bands.
Would to God that their sons were but now half so bold!
One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands,
Were sufficient to wither the whole turban'd bands.
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Then Freedom again, would smile lovely on Greece,
And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease;
And Athens, and Sparta, we yet might behold,
Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old.
And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease;
And Athens, and Sparta, we yet might behold,
Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old.
And the Hellenists—Lords of their own native soil,—
Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil;
And their country, no longer by slavery debased,
Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised!
Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil;
And their country, no longer by slavery debased,
Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised!
Then, since it is Freedom, and Freedom alone,
That halloweth country and makes it our own;
May she march with the sun, like the sun may she blaze,
Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays.
That halloweth country and makes it our own;
May she march with the sun, like the sun may she blaze,
Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays.
Accurst be the villain, and shunned by mankind,
Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind;
May his name be detested, himself from earth driven,
Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven.
Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind;
May his name be detested, himself from earth driven,
Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven.
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But honoured and blest be the patriot chief,
Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief;
In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom,
And his memory shed, an eternal perfume.
Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief;
In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom,
And his memory shed, an eternal perfume.
And, O, my dear Country! wherever I be,
My first—my last prayer shall ascend still for thee,
That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time,
Unblighted by slavery, unsullied by crime.
My first—my last prayer shall ascend still for thee,
That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time,
Unblighted by slavery, unsullied by crime.
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ODE,
Written for the Anniversary of the Birth of Robert Tannahill.
While certain parties in the state,
Meet yearly, to commemorate
The birth of their great “heaven-born” head,
Wha lang did Britain's councils lead;—
And, in the face of downright facts,
Launch forth in praise of certain acts,
As deeds of first-rate magnitude,
Performed a' for the public good,
By this rare pink o' politicians,
This matchless Prince o' state Physicians;
Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay,
Bleeding the state into decay:
For—studying the great Sangrado,—
There's little doubt, but he got haud o'
The secret o' that great man's art,
At which he soon grew most expert;
As his prescriptions, like his master's,
Still ran on lancets, mair than plasters:—
A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations,
Like men, are fash'd wi' inflammations;
But somewhat dangerous when the patient,
From being rather scrimptly rationt,
Has little blood to spare—and when,
(With all respect for learned men)
He has much less desire, to look,
To the Physician, than the Cook.
While thus they meet, and yearly dine,
And o'er their flowing cups o' wine,
By studied speech, or weel-timed toast,
Declare it is their greatest boast,
That they were friends o' that great Pilot,
Wha braved the storm, by his rare skill o't,
And brought the vessel fairly through,
Though mutinous were half the crew.
But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows,
Are careful to forget, to tell us,
That running foul o' some rude rock,
He gied the vessel such a shock,
As shattered a' her stately hull;
So that her owner, Mr. Bull,
So terrible a loss sustaining,
Has ever since been sair complaining:—
In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow,
With face, now of a sickly yellow,
A constitution, sadly shattered,
A frame wi' toil and sickness battered,
Wearing away by constant wasting,
Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting.
But yet, he vows, if he be spared,
He'll have her thoroughly repaired,
Nor weary out his gallant crew,
By toiling mair than men can do;
For now, it tak's them ceaseless pumping,
To keep the crazy hulk from swamping:
Na, trowth, they tell us nought like that,
They're no sae candid, weel I wat.
But getting a' quite pack thegither,
They bandy compliments at ither,
Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries,
Are playing off like bomb-shell batteries;
Or rather to come lower down,
For that's a simile too high flown,
It's somewhat like a boyish yoking,
At battle-door and shuttle-cocking;
For, soon as this ane gies his crack,
The next ane's ready to pay back
His fulsome compliments galiore;
And thus, is blarney's battle-door,
Applied to flattery's shuttle-cock,
Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke.
Meet yearly, to commemorate
The birth of their great “heaven-born” head,
Wha lang did Britain's councils lead;—
And, in the face of downright facts,
Launch forth in praise of certain acts,
As deeds of first-rate magnitude,
Performed a' for the public good,
By this rare pink o' politicians,
This matchless Prince o' state Physicians;
Whase greatest skill in bleeding lay,
Bleeding the state into decay:
For—studying the great Sangrado,—
There's little doubt, but he got haud o'
The secret o' that great man's art,
At which he soon grew most expert;
109
Still ran on lancets, mair than plasters:—
A proper mode, nae doubt, when nations,
Like men, are fash'd wi' inflammations;
But somewhat dangerous when the patient,
From being rather scrimptly rationt,
Has little blood to spare—and when,
(With all respect for learned men)
He has much less desire, to look,
To the Physician, than the Cook.
While thus they meet, and yearly dine,
And o'er their flowing cups o' wine,
By studied speech, or weel-timed toast,
Declare it is their greatest boast,
That they were friends o' that great Pilot,
Wha braved the storm, by his rare skill o't,
And brought the vessel fairly through,
Though mutinous were half the crew.
But then, these Pitt-adoring fellows,
Are careful to forget, to tell us,
That running foul o' some rude rock,
He gied the vessel such a shock,
110
So that her owner, Mr. Bull,
So terrible a loss sustaining,
Has ever since been sair complaining:—
In fact, this once brave, stout, plump fellow,
With face, now of a sickly yellow,
A constitution, sadly shattered,
A frame wi' toil and sickness battered,
Wearing away by constant wasting,
Down to the grave seems fast a-hasting.
But yet, he vows, if he be spared,
He'll have her thoroughly repaired,
Nor weary out his gallant crew,
By toiling mair than men can do;
For now, it tak's them ceaseless pumping,
To keep the crazy hulk from swamping:
Na, trowth, they tell us nought like that,
They're no sae candid, weel I wat.
But getting a' quite pack thegither,
They bandy compliments at ither,
Sae thick and fast, that mutual flatteries,
Are playing off like bomb-shell batteries;
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For that's a simile too high flown,
It's somewhat like a boyish yoking,
At battle-door and shuttle-cocking;
For, soon as this ane gies his crack,
The next ane's ready to pay back
His fulsome compliments galiore;
And thus, is blarney's battle-door,
Applied to flattery's shuttle-cock,
Till ilk ane round gets stroke for stroke.
A different task is ours indeed,
We meet, to pay the grateful meed;—
The meed of just esteem sincere,
To ane, whase memory we hold dear;
To ane, whase name demands respect,
Although wi' nae court titles deckt;
To ane, wha never learned the gate,
Of fawning meanly on the great;
To ane, wha never turned his coat,
To mak' a sinfu' penny o't;
To ane, wha never speel'd to favour,
By turning mankind's chief enslaver;
To ane, wha never did aspire
To set, and keep the warld on fire;
To ane, wha ne'er, by mischief brewing,
Raised himsel' on his country's ruin;
But humbly glided on through life,
Remote from party jars and strife,
A quiet, inoffensive man,
As ever life's short race-course ran,
A simple, honest child of nature still,
In short, our ain dear minstrel—Tannahill.
We meet, to pay the grateful meed;—
The meed of just esteem sincere,
To ane, whase memory we hold dear;
To ane, whase name demands respect,
Although wi' nae court titles deckt;
To ane, wha never learned the gate,
Of fawning meanly on the great;
To ane, wha never turned his coat,
To mak' a sinfu' penny o't;
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By turning mankind's chief enslaver;
To ane, wha never did aspire
To set, and keep the warld on fire;
To ane, wha ne'er, by mischief brewing,
Raised himsel' on his country's ruin;
But humbly glided on through life,
Remote from party jars and strife,
A quiet, inoffensive man,
As ever life's short race-course ran,
A simple, honest child of nature still,
In short, our ain dear minstrel—Tannahill.
O Tannahill! thou bard revered,
Thy name shall ever be endeared
To Scotia, thy loved land of song,
While her pure rivers glide along;
While her bleak rugged mountains high,
Point their rude summits to the sky;
While yellow harvests on her plains,
Reward her children's toils and pains;
And while her sons and daughters leal,
The inborn glow of freedom feel,
Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens,
Shall echo thy delightful strains.
While “Jura's cliffs” are capt with snows;
While the “dark winding Carron” flows;
While high “Benlomond” rears his head;
To catch the sun's last radiance shed;
While sweet “Gleniffer's dewy dell”
Blooms wi' “the craw-flower's early bell;”
While smiles “Glenkilloch's sunny brae,”
Made classic by thy tender lay;
While waves the “wood of Craigielee,”
Where “Mary's heart was won by thee,”
Thy name—thy artless minstresley,
Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die;
But, thou wilt be remembered still,
Meek, unassuming Tannahill.
What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
In diving deep, or soaring high;
What, though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to draw the public gaze;
Yet, thy sweet numbers, free from art,
Like his, can touch—can melt the heart.
Thy name shall ever be endeared
To Scotia, thy loved land of song,
While her pure rivers glide along;
While her bleak rugged mountains high,
Point their rude summits to the sky;
While yellow harvests on her plains,
Reward her children's toils and pains;
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The inborn glow of freedom feel,
Her woods, her rocks, her hills and glens,
Shall echo thy delightful strains.
While “Jura's cliffs” are capt with snows;
While the “dark winding Carron” flows;
While high “Benlomond” rears his head;
To catch the sun's last radiance shed;
While sweet “Gleniffer's dewy dell”
Blooms wi' “the craw-flower's early bell;”
While smiles “Glenkilloch's sunny brae,”
Made classic by thy tender lay;
While waves the “wood of Craigielee,”
Where “Mary's heart was won by thee,”
Thy name—thy artless minstresley,
Sweet bard of nature, ne'er shall die;
But, thou wilt be remembered still,
Meek, unassuming Tannahill.
What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
In diving deep, or soaring high;
What, though thy genius did not blaze
Like his, to draw the public gaze;
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Like his, can touch—can melt the heart.
The lav'rock may soar, till he's lost in the sky,
Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree,
Altho' he aspire not to regions so high,
His song is as sweet as the laverock's to me;
And O thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill,
Whatever thy theme be,—love, grief or despair,
The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will,
For nature, all powerful, predominates there.
Yet the modest wee lintie that sings frae the tree,
Altho' he aspire not to regions so high,
His song is as sweet as the laverock's to me;
And O thy wild warblings are sweet, Tannahill,
Whatever thy theme be,—love, grief or despair,
The tones of thy lyre move our feelings at will,
For nature, all powerful, predominates there.
But, while the bard we eulogize,
Shall we the man neglect to prize?
No; perish every virtue first,
And every vice usurp its place,
With every ill let man be curst,
Ere we do aught so mean and base.
Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame,
And niches in her lofty temple claim?—
Shall the unfeeling scourgers of mankind,
To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind?—
Shall the depopulators of the earth,
Without one particle of real worth—
Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime,
Be handed down by fame, to latest time,
The admiration of each future age,
They!—whose vile names are blots on every page?
And shall the child of virtue be forgot,
Because the inmate of a humble cot?
Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere,
Who gave to want his mite—to woe his tear;—
Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure,
Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure;—
Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane,
Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain;—
Whose filial love for her who gave him birth,
Has seldom found a parallel on earth;—
Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie?
Forbid it, every sacred Power on high;
Forbid it, every virtue here below.—
Shall such a precious gem lie buried?—no:—
Historians may neglect him, if they will,
But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill.
Shall we the man neglect to prize?
No; perish every virtue first,
And every vice usurp its place,
With every ill let man be curst,
Ere we do aught so mean and base.
Shall bloody warriors fill the rolls of fame,
And niches in her lofty temple claim?—
115
To mercy deaf, to their own interest blind?—
Shall the depopulators of the earth,
Without one particle of real worth—
Whose lives are one compounded mass of crime,
Be handed down by fame, to latest time,
The admiration of each future age,
They!—whose vile names are blots on every page?
And shall the child of virtue be forgot,
Because the inmate of a humble cot?
Shall he whose heart was open, warm, sincere,
Who gave to want his mite—to woe his tear;—
Whose friendship still, was steady, warm and sure,
Whose love was tender, constant, ardent, pure;—
Whose fine-toned feelings, generous and humane,
Were hurt to give the meanest reptile pain;—
Whose filial love for her who gave him birth,
Has seldom found a parallel on earth;—
Shall he, forgotten in oblivion lie?
Forbid it, every sacred Power on high;
116
Shall such a precious gem lie buried?—no:—
Historians may neglect him, if they will,
But age will tell to age, the worth of Tannahill.
When mighty conquerors shall be forgot,
When like themselves, their very names shall rot;
When even the story of their deeds is lost,
Or only heard with horror and disgust;—
When happy man, from tyranny set free,
Shall wonder if such things could really be;
And bless his stars that he was not on earth,
When such destructive monsters were brought forth;
When the whole human family shall be one,
In every clime below the circling sun,
And every man shall live secure and free,
Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig tree;
No savage hordes his dwelling to invade,
Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid;
When things are prized, not by their showy dress,
But by the solid worth which they possess;
Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard,
Those times shall venerate with deep regard;
His songs will charm, his virtues be revered,
And to his name shall monuments be reared.
When like themselves, their very names shall rot;
When even the story of their deeds is lost,
Or only heard with horror and disgust;—
When happy man, from tyranny set free,
Shall wonder if such things could really be;
And bless his stars that he was not on earth,
When such destructive monsters were brought forth;
When the whole human family shall be one,
In every clime below the circling sun,
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Beneath his vine, beneath his own fig tree;
No savage hordes his dwelling to invade,
Nor plunderer daring to make him afraid;
When things are prized, not by their showy dress,
But by the solid worth which they possess;
Even then, our loved, our much lamented bard,
Those times shall venerate with deep regard;
His songs will charm, his virtues be revered,
And to his name shall monuments be reared.
[_]
It is well authenticated, that the rash act which terminated the career of the unfortunate Tannahill, was committed in a fit of mental distraction, arising from a circumstance, which the peculiar sensibility of his mind could not brook. The many amiable qualities of his disposition, which we have here endeavoured to depict, have ever been confirmed by his intimates, as well as by all who were in the least degree acquainted with him, so as justly to entitle him to the epithet “child of virtue.”
This may seem to many, perhaps, too harsh a term to apply to human beings; but, when we consider the atrocities and butcheries committed or sanctioned, by such characters as Nero, Caligula, Atilla and others, in what terms can we more properly designate such individuals, than “destructive monsters?”
124
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When proud man, for thirst of fame,
Madly wades through blood and slaughter,
What his savage heart can tame?—
Woman!—Nature's fairest daughter.
In this thorny vale of grief
Where shall weary man repose him?
Where obtain such blest relief,
As on lovely woman's bosom?
Madly wades through blood and slaughter,
What his savage heart can tame?—
Woman!—Nature's fairest daughter.
In this thorny vale of grief
Where shall weary man repose him?
Where obtain such blest relief,
As on lovely woman's bosom?
When the infant is distrest,
What is then its sweetest soother?—
'Tis the soft—the tender breast,
Of its anxious, fondling mother.
Where's the only heaven on earth,
Where those buds celestial blossom—
Truth, love, feeling, meekness, worth—
Where?—in virtuous woman's bosom.
What is then its sweetest soother?—
'Tis the soft—the tender breast,
Of its anxious, fondling mother.
Where's the only heaven on earth,
Where those buds celestial blossom—
Truth, love, feeling, meekness, worth—
Where?—in virtuous woman's bosom.
125
What impels the patriot band
On to actions more than human,
To redeem their dear-loved land—
What!—but sweet, endearing woman?
Yes, her meek imploring tear
With supernal fire endues them:—
Freedom! then, how doubly dear,
Breathed upon her panting bosom!
On to actions more than human,
To redeem their dear-loved land—
What!—but sweet, endearing woman?
Yes, her meek imploring tear
With supernal fire endues them:—
Freedom! then, how doubly dear,
Breathed upon her panting bosom!
126
AS AE DOOR STEEKS ANITHER CLOSES, OR THE PROVERB REVERSED.
Methinks some old Scotch proverb says,
“As ae door steeks anither opens,”
Though this may sometimes be the case,
Its sad reverse much oftener happens;
Let's therefore coin the thing anew,
(Ne'er minding what each snarling foe says)
And try to prove this axiom true,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
“As ae door steeks anither opens,”
Though this may sometimes be the case,
Its sad reverse much oftener happens;
Let's therefore coin the thing anew,
(Ne'er minding what each snarling foe says)
And try to prove this axiom true,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
The man whose trade moves to his mind,
Is always sure of friends to help him,
And ne'er is at a loss to find
An open door—a hearty welcome;
But he, whose fortune's on the wane,
Who tries—and tries—and tries, but loses,
Soon finds just reason to complain,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
Is always sure of friends to help him,
And ne'er is at a loss to find
An open door—a hearty welcome;
But he, whose fortune's on the wane,
Who tries—and tries—and tries, but loses,
Soon finds just reason to complain,
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
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The haughty minister of state,
Who proudly basks in royal sunshine,
While numbers daily on him wait,
To catch a glimpse of borrowed moonshine;
Poor man! for all his pomp and power,
He sleeps not on a bed of roses,
For should his lord but shut the door,
Then every door against him closes.
Who proudly basks in royal sunshine,
While numbers daily on him wait,
To catch a glimpse of borrowed moonshine;
Poor man! for all his pomp and power,
He sleeps not on a bed of roses,
For should his lord but shut the door,
Then every door against him closes.
The artizan whose dauntless mind,
Revolts against his proud oppressor,
Turned off—can no employment find,
For being such a bold transgressor;
His suit is met in every place
With jibes, and sneers, and turn'd-up noses.
Thus feels he this sad truth, alas!
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
Revolts against his proud oppressor,
Turned off—can no employment find,
For being such a bold transgressor;
His suit is met in every place
With jibes, and sneers, and turn'd-up noses.
Thus feels he this sad truth, alas!
“As ae door steeks anither closes.”
The spendthrift wild, who wastes his wealth,
In rioting and dissipation,
Ne'er dreams, poor fool! of injured health,
Pale want, or blasted reputation.
Disease and poverty come on,
His credit everywhere he loses,
Even self-respect, at last is gone,
Door after door against him closes.
In rioting and dissipation,
Ne'er dreams, poor fool! of injured health,
Pale want, or blasted reputation.
128
His credit everywhere he loses,
Even self-respect, at last is gone,
Door after door against him closes.
The poor neglected virtuous man,
Who long the storms of life has braved,
Sinks down, at last, exhausted—wan—
Of every earthly stay bereaved;
Yet still has he one prop that's sure,
On which his harassed soul reposes,
Though spurned from every earthly door,
The door of Heaven—never closes.
Who long the storms of life has braved,
Sinks down, at last, exhausted—wan—
Of every earthly stay bereaved;
Yet still has he one prop that's sure,
On which his harassed soul reposes,
Though spurned from every earthly door,
The door of Heaven—never closes.
| Peter Cornclips | |