Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin :: :: University of Virginia Library

The hill, the dale, the woodland, and the stream,
Of various bards have been th'unvaried theme.
If then, of hill, dale, wood, and stream I write,
Will not the sated reader cry—'Tis trite?
The field is reap'd I must, alas, admit;
But still the laws of God and Man permit
The gleaner, following the reaper band,
To fill with scatter'd ears his meagre hand.—
To rural scenes I raise my feeble voice:
O were my life thus subject to my choice!

If heaven my weary hopes should ever crown
With leave to fly the busy bustling town,
In Scottish glen low shall my dwelling stand,
With tangling woods and shallow brooks at hand,

And garden fenc'd with hedge of eglantine
And hawthorn interspers'd with sweet woodbine:
My roof not high, my parlour warm and clean,
With windows small, and learned shelves between,
Where Cowper, Barbauld, Burns may find a place,
And even Virgil dare to shew his face:
A cottage, not a castle, is my prayer;
O may't not be a cottage in the air!
And you, to whom the real bliss belongs,
While I but clasp the shadow in my songs,
Learn, nor despise instruction tho' in rhyme,
How to enjoy, not kill the fleeting time.

When April strews the woods with primrose flowers,
When oft the day is dimm'd with hovering showers,
When cuckoo birds repeat th'unchanging song,
And muddy rivers sluggish steal along,—
The wat'ry wiles now long disus'd prepare,
Unloose the ravell'd line with patient care,

Fix well the hook, then dip the sapless wand,
And throw the line athwart with waving hand.
Slowly it glides down with the dusky flood,
Bearing along the fatal treacherous food.
It sinks—it sinks again—but do not pull;
'Tis but the nibbling of some sportive fool:
Wait cautious till the floating signal dive,
Now gently pull, O do not rashly strive;
The slender wand to every motion bends,
And yielding, in a drooping crescent ends:
Soon on the bank the struggling captive lies,
Then in the wicker prison gasping dies.

But if thy skill such humble sport deride,
Wait until when the swollen streams subside,
Till when the swallows skim along the flood
And flitting zig-zag catch the insect brood.
O'er night the mimic flies arrange with care,
The brown, the gray, the gilded, and the fair.

With earliest dawn up from thy slumbers spring,
Ere yet the morning birds begin to sing:
And O leave not behind th'unweeting boy,
Nor cheat him dreaming of the promis'd joy;
Go rouse him gently, see him sleeping smile,
Then, if thou canst, his wak'ning hopes beguile:
Thy steps he'll follow grateful and submiss,
Study thy looks, and fear to do amiss.
But feigning angry mien, and wrathful tone,
Command the rambling spaniel to be gone;
Then lightly skiff along the dewy plain,
Until the misty river's side you gain.
If there success you wish, observe this rule,—
Where ends the stream and where begins the pool,
Let the wing'd lure among the eddies play
And dancing round delude the speckled prey.
Beware—be not impatiently rash,
Nor fretfully the harmless surface lash;
The limber line with wary motion throw,
Let it fall gently like a flake of snow,

Which silent melts as on the stream it lights
And with the wat'ry element unites:
And still be mindful of the heedless eye
Of the small wight who playful sitteth nigh.
So shall your arts a noble prize delude,
So the huge trout shall snatch the seeming food.
See how he shoots along stretching the line:
Indulge his way, do not his force confine.
Fainter and fainter efforts still are try'd,
Till on the stream floats his enamell'd side;
Pulled slow ashore, he pants with frequent gasp,
And dyes the little hands that scarce around him clasp.

'Neath flood-scoop'd rocks, and thro' deep trackless dells,
Where fairies haunt, (as village rumour tells)
Where oft is heard the boding screech-owl's scream,
Upward you trace the slowly lessening stream.
Begins the sun now downward to descend,
Now more and more the trees their shades extend:

Tir'd of success, and loaded wit the spoil,
Homeward across the furrow'd fields you toil,
Your watchful dog afar your coming spies,
Soon at your feet the crouching suppliant lies.

If to the streams one day you thus allot,
The two that follow to the Muse devote:
List to the song of the Mæonian swan,
The fall of Troy, the much-enduring Man
Who wrought her fall: or, if the Mantuan strain
In pleasing rapture all your soul detain,
Bless bounteous Heaven that form'd you to enjoy
Pleasures so pure, pleasures without alloy.
But long in fields of fiction do not rove,
Nor always lounge in the poetic grove:
Let tales of real life your mind engage,
And search for truth in the historic page.

While yet 'tis spring, I to the tardy team
Resort full oft, and see the ploughshare gleam;

With clay-clogg'd feet cumber'd I walk along,
Beneath the music of the Laverok's song,
The while the sower steps, with waving hand
And loaded sheet, along the furrow'd land.

SUMMER.

Pale primroses among the woods decay,
And hyacinths bedeck sweet smiling May;
The blackbird chaunts upon the full blown thorn,
And all the woodland chorus cheers the morn.
Now to the dewy hill direct thy way,
The varied plain with grateful eye survey,
And view the windings of the hidden stream,
Where misty wreaths lurk from the rising beam.
Behold the distant city's smoky shroud,
Where dim-seen spires peep thro' the brooding cloud:
Compare thy lot with theirs who yonder toil,
Whose life is one incessant sore turmoil,
Who only once in seven long days inhale,
In short excursion, the cool western gale.
For me—how seldom are my wishes crown'd
With leave to fly the stunning, dizzying sound!

And when indulg'd, how fleeting the sojourn!
How soon by whispering care urg'd to return!
The captive bird, thus from the cage set free,
Flies to the grove and flits from tree to tree;
Each dell, each bosky bourne he loves to range,
Rejoicing in the life-renewing change:
But all unus'd to seek the woodland fare,
Or to endure the midnight's chilling air,
Back to his prison—he forsakes the wood,
And, ah! too common, freedom sells for food.

While yet the dew-drop glisters in the shade,
Ere yet the sun-beams reach the hidden glade,
The aged labourer quits his morning toil,
His well-worn spade fix'd in th'inverted soil.
Afar his little boy, pleas'd he descries,
Who light of heart fast from the village hies;
In this hand hangs a scrip, in that a pail,
The frugal dishes of his parent's meal:

The simple viands on the grass are spread,
The sire uncovers slow his hoary head,
And grateful to his God and Father pays
His humble homage and unfeigned praise,—
To him who to the ravens gave command
To feed his servant in the desert land.
This man had fought in fields bestrewn with dead,
And in his thankless country's cause had bled,—
For them who roll in ease without one thought
Of all the woe with which that ease is bought;
Who gorge remorseless at the costly feast
What would a starving family make blest;
Who seize the widow's mite when in arrear,
Stern and relentless to the pleading tear,
Then, if they give a tester to the poor,
Believe the generous deed will heaven secure;
And think that what thus to the Lord is lent
Will be repaid with interest cent. per cent.—
Ye sordid, pitiful, low, grovelling things,
Go grind the poor, go lick the dust to kings.

Resistless heat broods o'er the thirsty plains;
Among the woods a listless silence reigns;
The drooping bird no longer loves to sing,
But quits the branch and laves its fluttering wing;
The beggar leaves the road, embrown'd with dust,
And in the shaded fountain soaks his crust:
To the hoarse-babbling brook the poet strays,
Or loves to lose himself far 'mid the greenwood's maze.
Let me the river's dazzling glare avoid,
And lay me on the streamlet's shady side,
So narrow on the farther bank I see
Humming from flower to flower the devious bee,
While grashoppers, with intermitting voice,
Raise all around a feeble, chirping noise.

THE MINOR POETS.

Poets!—to what shall I resemble 'em?
The Cuckoo is their proper emblem.
While other birds are building nests
Her idle windpipe never rests.
Like her, without or house or home,
The vagrant race of Poets roam.
Like her their fav'rite theme is spring,
'Tis then they make the vallies ring.
Hers too's a fleeting short-liv'd lay,
The Poet's seldom lasts a day;
And there's as much (believe a brother)
Variety in one as t'other.

AN ESSAY ON DOG.

Part First.

ARGUMENT.

Invocation addressed to Pompey—Of Dog in the Abstract—The Mastiff—The Shepherd's Dog—The Town Dog—The Pointer.

“Awake my St. John, leave all meaner things
“To low ambition, and the pride of Kings.”
Pope's Essay on Man.

Awake, my Pompey, shake thy pliant ears,
And listen to my song, a song of thee,
And of Dogkind. Enough has now been sung
By man, that egotist, himself the theme.
An humbler subject for my strains I chuse,
Strains unadorn'd with harmony of rhyme:
I sing the poor man's never-changing friend,

The friend still true when all have turn'd their back;
If prosperous his lot, submissive still,
Or if adverse, not knowing to repine;
Content whether he eat the rich man's bread,
Or the blind beggar lead from door to door.
Mistaken man, thou call'st thy foe a dog,—
This his suppos'd reproach, his greatest praise.
If dogs in language could their thoughts impart,
Mayhap they'd call a vicious cur—a man.
Nor think the difference great 'twixt thee and him:
Like man, “he reasons not contemptibly;”
He loves, he hates, he robs, he steals,
And, had he gift of speech, perhaps he'd lie.
Yea, too, full oft he pisseth 'gainst the wall,
Ancient criterion of the human kind .
And as in characters of men is seen
Diversity of shades, so 'tis in Dogs,
From the huge house-dog to the lap-dog small.

Close by his box the sent'nel mastiff lies:

His head couch'd 'twixt his paws he scarcely deigns
To turn, but rolls his scowling eyes askance;
The quaking passenger, assuming looks
Of careless boldness, fearful moves along,
But sudden at the smallest growl he starts;
The monster strives to break his rattling chain;
Poor slave! by slav'ry render'd still more fierce.

Fam'd for a race of dogs are Tweed's blythe braes
And hills green to the summit. Sweetly there
The shepherd tunes his reed to Scotia's lays,
Until the downward sun has left the glens
Tinging the mountain tops; then at a word
His faithful dog, cautious, with circuit wide,
Wears in the straying flock. They to the fold
Wend leisurely along, where safe shut in,
With gate that erst had harrow'd fruitful fields,
Old now and of its teeth disarm'd, peaceful they rest.
O happy you, the happiest of your kind,

Ye shepherds dogs! if ye but knew your bliss .
What, Luath, tho' thy fare be scant and poor,
Tho' at the good-wife's churn thou'rt fain to watch,
And lick the frothy drops that fall around:
Yet peace secure, and sleep in sun or shade,
And hill and dale, and wood, and stream are thine.
Far happier thou, I ween, than city cur.
No knavish boys delude thee with a crust,
Whilst to thy tail they fix the rattling pan:
And when old age shall cripple all thy joints,
Thou'lt not be set adrift to steal for food,
Like the poor negro-slave outcast and helpless;
Nor from the bridge, with stone hung round thy neck,
Wilt thou by unrelenting hand be thrown.

Of dog and man the depth of misery
In cities still is found. Oft have I seen,
On wintry morn, in tatter'd weeds a wretch
Picking the cinders from the dunghill heaps,
And shivering at the self-same spot her dog
Scraping for bones; when happy if he find
The wish'd for prize, fearful he skulks away
And in some hidden nook enjoys the feast,
Unless perchance, growling with tusks display'd
Some stronger pirate meet him by the way,
And seize the morsel from his trembling jaw.

What tho' with blinding snows the shepherd's dog
Must struggle oft, driving the famish'd flock
Round from the fatal shelter of the hill,
Where wreaths on wreaths smooth up the treacherous glen:
At night his toils are o'er; and basking warm
Before the blazing fire he dries his jetty coat.

See o'er the stubble ridge the Pointer range:
This way and that he traverses the field.
Sudden with eager look and cautious step
Couring he creeps, till stiffen'd all at once,
With lifted foot quite motionless he stands.
The sportsman onward moves with throbbing heart.
Down comes the whirring pinion to the ground.
But barbarous joys delight me now no more;
Fly rather, Pompey, to my Delia's bowers;
Say, does she smiling take thy proffer'd paw,
Nor chide thee, tho' thou soil her snow-white stole,
Stroaking with gentle hand thy spotted head? [OMITTED]

I Kings xvi. II.

O fortunatos nimium sua si bona norint
Agricolas! ------
At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita,
Dives opum variarum; at latis otia fundis,
Speluncæ, vivique lacus; at frigida tempe,
Mugitusque boum, mollesque sub arbore somni
Non absunt!

Virg. Geor. II.

THE POET'S ADDRESS TO HIS NEW BOOK.

I've thrown thee, friend, into the stream of fame;
To sink or swim depends all on thyself.
O may'st thou, as th'Orphean lyre of old,
When gliding down th Ismenian river's stream,
Call forth the echoes from their twilight grots,
And make the banks thy melody resound.
May ne'er thy page be injur'd by the flood,
But like the swan's fair breast remain undrench'd,
As rowing down the silver tide he charms
With sweetest ravishment the listening woods.

Still be thy fate as various as thy theme,—
Read by the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The grave, the gay, the polish'd, and the rude;
One while in hands as fair as was thy leaf
Ere yet my Muse had stain'd it with her scrawl;
Anon soil'd by some sagely-snuffing fool,
Mayhap besprinkled by his boisterous sneeze.

Chiefly to youth and beauty pay thy court,
And competence still willing to be pleased:
And, while I struggle thro' the justling crowd,
Be thou at ease reclin'd with brother bards
In parlour snug, far from the dusty shelf.
And, O! what transport would it be to think,
That, like the song of the Mæonian bard
Beneath the conquering Macedonian's head,
Thou all below th'Elysian pillow lay
Of her, whose eyes more lasting conquests gain
Than did the furious sword of Ammon's son!
Or—may she leaning on some flowery bank,

With sweet approving eye shine on thy page,
And, when she closeth thee, fold 'twixt thy leaves,
The primrose pale or purple violet,
To mark the page reluctant which she left.

Ah me! how vain are these aspiring hopes!
Perhaps to servile purposes thou destin'd art;
And 'stead of lighting flames in Delia's breast,
Thou'lt only light her taper when she reads
Some hated rival's more engaging lay:
Perhaps a fate even still more vile awaits,—
To clean the suds from off the razor's edge;
To wad the cruel murderous fowling-piece;
Or damn'd to heaven thou'lt soar a paper kite;
Or blaze a funeral pile for singeing fowls.
If then, the paper, not the verse is priz'd,
Go, happy, twist my Delia's lovely locks,
And in her ringlets bound kiss that sweet neck,
That galaxy of every grace divine.

FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ON DUELLING.

Say, Muse, what cause so forcible can make one
Expose to powder and to ball one's bacon?
For my poor part, I say, and always said,
That 'tis the fear of being thought afraid.
What mighty folly to avenge the pains
Of trampled toe, at peril of one's brains!
How impious in mortal man to scatter
The sacred contents of his Pia mater!
But what my patience drives to the ne plus
Ultra, and would were I the man of Uz,
Is to consider that the fawning wretch
To whom some Lordling calls—go—carry—fetch,—

The powder'd, perfum'd, pimping, prating varlet,
Presuming on cockade and coat of scarlet,
The fluster'd coward, wishing to retrieve
The honour, which in battle he did leave,
By honour's laws may force the man of Ross
To stake his Sterling worth against their dross;
Or that some ruin'd gambler, to avoid
The trouble and the crime of suicide,
The best of men with insult may provoke
At once to give and to receive the stroke.

In gambling annals, was there ever known
The rich man's purse against the poor one's thrown
Quite by the slump?—Since then 'tis always found,
When money's risk'd, that pound is stak'd 'gainst pound,
Shilling 'gainst shilling, pennies against pence,
Where's the consistency with common sense,
That when life's stak'd, all thought of worth's omitted,
And with a patriot a state swindler pitted?—

When,—merit weigh'd,—the odds were fairly laid
Were Charles' curl risk'd 'gainst Billy's head.

[OMITTED]

And now behold depart on pious mission
Yond B---p vowing 'gainst his foes perdition,
Swearing by blood and wounds, hell-fire and thunder,
That with the voice of four and twenty pounder
He'll soon convert the atheistic tribe,
Make them the Athanasian creed subscribe,
Force them Te Deum on their knees to bellow,
And for their daily bread a wafer swallow.

[OMITTED]

In order to prevent any misconstruction of these last lines, it may be proper to mention, that they were written with no view of conveying any reflection against religion, but solely with the view of exposing the wickedness and folly of attempting by force of arms, to re-establish a superstition, the absurdity, nonsense, and blasphemy of which, joined with the ignorance, bigotry, cruelty, profligacy, atheism, tyranny, and rapacity of its priests, have driven almost a whole nation to infidelity.

THE REDBREAST.

To him who wades thro' autumn's leaf-strewn paths,
Ere long to be as deep o'erlaid with snow,
Sweetly the Redbreast mourns the parting year,
Sweetly with woodland melody he soothes
The savage breast of man, his future host.
When falcon Winter hovers o'er the wood
He flies for refuge to the haunts of men;
First to the trim-built stack or busy barn;
But soon as Boreas drives along the plain
With snow and blinding sleet, nearer he draws,
And from the window pecks the sprinkled crumbs;
Till bolder grown, as fiercer drifts the storm,

Within th'expecting threshold he alights,
“And pays to trusted man his annual visit.”

Oft have I seen thee, in my boyish days,
(Ere yet I knew the city's vain turmoil)
Perch'd on the distaff of the housemaid's wheel:
She sung of lovers faithless, maids undone,
Of faithful lovers, and of faithless seas,
Thy notes with her's in artless concert join'd.
Did ever school-boy rob poor Redbreast's house?
No sure: for well each thoughtless truant knows,
'Twas this sweet bird that left his nest half built,
And carrying leaf by leaf, from morn to eve,
Enwrapt the children in the wood forlorn,
All with a fragrant shroud. At thought of this
The spoiler's outstretch'd eager hand recoils,
Softly on tiptoe, hush, he steals away,
The dam assiduous sits, nor leaves her charge.

ON BURNS, THE SCOTTISH POET.

“Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
“That in the merry months of spring
“Delighted me to hear thee sing,
“What comes o' thee?
“Whare dost thou cowr thy chittering wing
“Or close thy ee?”
A Winter Night.—Burns.

The bard whose song still echoes in the vale,
The bard whose song each lovely tongue recites,
Is left to moil like men of common mould;
The song still charms us; but the bard's forgot.
'Tis thus the thrush, sweet minstrel of the spring,
His woodnotes wild pours from the milk-white thorn;
But when stern Winter chills the leafless grove,

Shivering he's left to glean his scanty food,
Nor ever is the woodland path bestrewn,
Save with intent to lure him to the snare.

Ungrateful country! ill-requited Burns!
Shall he who sung, in Scotia's Doric lays,
“The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene,”
Remain neglected in the scene he paints,
And ask, perhaps in vain, “for leave to toil?”
Shall he who sung far sweeter than the lark,
When upward springing from the daisy's side
To greet the purpling east,
Be driven from the fields cheer'd by his song?
Who e'er with truth and yet with dignity
Like him rehears'd the annals of the poor?
Did e'er religion half so lovely seem
In temples, as in his low lonely cot?
“The Power incens'd the pageant will desert,
“The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole,
“And haply in some cottage far apart

“May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the soul;
“And in his book of life the inmates poor inrol.”

Ye patrons of the mighty dead, who strive
T'immortalize immortal Thomson's name,
Rear not to angels mole-hill monuments,
While living merit owns no sheltering roof:
Rather would Thomson's gentle spirit see
A mansion rais'd for his neglected Burns,
Than gorgeous mausoleums for himself.

[Written several years ago.]

TO THE MOON.

Fair silver Moon, while I the live long night
With sleepless eye gaze on thy pale-fac'd orb,
My thoughts on Delia fixt, thou, happy Moon!
Dost thro' her casement shine, and silent steal
Kisses from her unconscious lovely lip.
Shine not so bright, sweet Moon, thou'lt wake my love;
Soft veil thee in a fleecy limber cloud,
So may'st thou view her charms in sleep more charming far,
Her eyes more beauteous now than when awake,
As flowers when shut than spreading to the sun.

TO CARE.

Snug in the covert hid the panting hare
Lays fear aside and vainly thinks she's safe;
But soon th'approaching noise swells in the gale:
So, Care, where'er I flee, close thou pursu'st;
Thro' city, country, crowd or solitude;
Whether with wary step, Edina fair,
Along thy fragrant street I cull my path
At morning hour; or o'er the misty lawn
Brush thro' the glistering dew, and wake the lark;
Or penetrate at noon th'embowering wood.
Or if, (in happy but delusive dreams)
With Delia's lovely hand fast lock'd in mine,
I see reflected from th'unruffled brook
All-beauteous the wat'ry image smile,
Ev'n there thou thrust'st thy lowring face between,
And bid'st us part.

TO DELIA.

Our old Scotch saints before a battle
Did with the Lord first try their mettle
In prayer, (as the story goes)
To bless themselves and curse their foes;
Nay with him were so very daring
As venture wrestling and sparring,
And at the last turn'd so expert
I'th' spiritual gymnastic art,
That, laying by their useless swords,
They gain'd great victories by words.
Now if those blades durst with their Maker
Fight at pull, devil, and pull, baker,
Why may not I, O Goddess sweet,
When bending suppliant at thy feet,

When prayer and pennance nought avail,
When humble silence still doth fail,
At one great throw adventure all,
And with thee boldly try a fall?—

ON D---D H---E.

“Doubt every thing,” the sceptic cries;
“To men, to books, no faith is due:”—
His History's so fill'd with lies,
It almost proves his doctrine true.

AN UNANSWERABLE ARGUMENT FOR THE SLAVE TRADE.

Says one to a merchant, “'Tis surely a crime
“To steal men, altho' from a tropical clime:—
“Yes, Sir,” says the Merchant, “we'll own you “are right,
“When once you've demonstrated black to be “white.”

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Long did he strive against th'o'erwhelming storm,
Long bear distress in every varied form:
Hush'd were the waves at last, calm was his death,
Peaceful in sleep he did resign his breath;
No watchful eye the parting moment knew,
Dreaming of heaven—he wak'd—the dream was true.

EPISTLE FROM A POOR BLIND COBLER TO A RICH CANDLE-MAKER.

“Vindex avaræ fraudis.”
Hor.

Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in Heaven. Matt. chap. v. v. 16.

Most reverend Sir, I'm truly vext
That you should counteract my text;
For tho' your works and candles shine
With lustre glorious, yea divine,
Yet if folks eyes your bratlings blow out,
You may let one and t'other go out,
And henceforth and for ever cease
To dip in gospel or in grease.

Your generous offer, I must own,
Surpassed expecta-ti-on;
For when you saw me robb'd of sight
You said I should not want for light,
And of complaint t'avoid all handle,
Agreed to give me coal and candle:
As for all other necessaries,
You knew the bounty of the parish.
You said too, without any stickling,
You'd send me now and then some crackling,
Which, though by some thought only fit
For feeding watch-dog or turn-spit,
Is, I must own, quite good enough,
And of your charity strong proof.
To charity I know you trust
To save your bacon at the last:
You built a church, and serve the cure,
And rail against the scarlet whore.
But is not this to please your pride?
It is—the thing can't be denied:

You think it mighty fine to gabble
To a half-witted, crazy rabble.
You preach the gospel to the poor,
Believing thus you'll heaven secure,
Of sp'ritual food full liberal,
But sparing of the temporal.
Regardless of your time and pains
You stuff and cram your hearers brains,
While their poor empty stomachs grumble
With many a woful hollow rumble.
But know (ere long you'll know't too well)
That you may build baith kirk and mill,
May cant, and whine, exhort, and pray,
And yet be damn'd eternally.
Then, while you turn and toss in limbo,
I'll sit and smile with arms akimbo,
And when you ask a drop of water,
(You call this devilish—no matter,)
I'll tell you tauntingly, go swallow
A ladleful of boiling tallow.

THE WISHES.

------ O ubi campi
Sperchiusque, et virginibus bacchata Lacænis
Taygeta! O qui me gelidis in vallibus Hæmi
Sistat, et ingenti ramorum protegat umbra!
Virg.

Once Virgil on a sultry day
Did thus the gods invoke and pray,
“O place me on the shady side
“Of Hæmus, else I shall be fry'd:
“Since Phaeton's days was never felt
“Such heat; the Devil's self 'twould melt,
“The Dev'l who, like a salamander,
“Thro' flames with beard unsing'd doth wander.”

When Phœbus' rays come down pell-mell,
Some modern bards sigh for a well,
(In rhyming tongue yclep'd a fountain
Spouting from the breezy mountain.)
Some headlong rush into the pool
Their fervid carcases to cool.
Fair ladies long for Grampian snows,
There to dance with breechless beaux;
Nay some would wear the philabeg,
Nor blush to shew a snow-white leg,
Nor grudge to grant a trifling favour
To the gently kissing zephyr,
Wer't not for tyrant Custom's laws,
Who rules the sex with iron paws.—
For me, tho' hot like Dives broiling,
Or a live lobster set a boiling,
No place there is I'd sooner pitch on,
Than that cool grot, Sir Jamie's kitchen.

THE HISTORY OF J. B.

OR THE NEW METAMORPHOSIS.

Anser in Hominem.

According to Pythagoras's
Doctrine, some men are chang'd to asses;
Geese too are oft transform'd to men,
And men to geese as oft again.
In proof of this there's B---s our friend,
A friend, tho' never known to lend.
His neck, which, like his purse, is long,
Is now th'occasion of my song.
This neck of his made some rude fellows
Say, he had sure dropt from the gallows.

He to refute such calumnies,
(Which as you'll hear were all damn'd lies)
Relates his wondrous transmigration,
Of which I give you this narration.
He tells how once he was a swan,
How next he was transform'd to man,
How that his collar still retains
Of 'ts ancient form some faint remains.
He next unto his legs appeals,
Six inches scarce 'twixt knee and heels:
And if his hearers start a doubt,
He raises such a noise and rout!
To's trowel feet he points in fury,
Presumptio juris et de jure.

His story credit gain'd with some,
Others believ'd it all a hum.
The truth had still remain'd in doubt,
Had he not let the secret out:

His vanity lent him a fling,
Nothing would serve him but he'd sing;
He sung the song that stopt the Gauls
When clambering up the Roman walls.

WRITTEN IN A BATHING MACHINE.

O carriage of amphibious nature!
Suited to ply by land and water,
And, like the crab, with backward pace,
Thy former track again to trace!
When to the sounding shore I go,
Snugly in thee myself I stow,
As in the horse the crafty Greek
When on old Troy he play'd a trick:
Than him I purpose to do more;
He back'd by many a valiant score,
Did only plunder Neptune's town,
I'll buffet Neptune's self alone.—

Oft have I wish'd, and wish'd again,
And found my wishes still in vain,
When trundling along the sand,
To have a hold of Delia's hand:
Oft have I proffer'd up a prayer
Unto that goddess wise and fair,
Who, for the sake of good example,
Chang'd Baucis' cot into a temple,
That she the only means would grant
Of making Delia's heart relent;
That this same jolting, justling waggon,
In which so clumsily I jog on,
She'd turn into a splendid chariot,
Sole test, in female eyes, of merit;
That she would change this meagre hack,
Whose ribs are symbols of his rack,
(For all within's so empty quite,
That thro' them you may see the light)
And for the stumbling scarecrow brute
Four fiery steeds would substitute:

Now, Delia, will you not confess,
That if those things were brought to pass,
Sans farther scruple you'd step in
And fly with me to Gretna Green?

ON SEEING SIR JAMIE PURCHASE A JEST BOOK.

Say, Muse, (for well thou canst I wot)
What charm has loos'd the Gordian knot
Of Jamie's purse, the sage profound,
In field and forum both renown'd,—
That purse where captive shillings pine,
Where copper sleeps as in the mine,
Unwak'd by Misery's plaintive prayer:
Or, if a farthing 'scape, 'tis rare.
Say, purse, what could induce thy Lord
To draw a shilling from his hoard?—
—Alas! poor gentleman! he's smit
With passion to be thought a wit,
But lacking brains that can supply it,
He's forc'd, hard fate! he's forc'd to buy it.

GRETNA GREEN.

No more the soldier on the dewy turf,
With shield-propt head, stretches himself to rest;
Where once in furious shock the battle clos'd,
Now rush fond lovers into others arms;
Soft sighs are heard where erst the trumpet blew;
The field of Mars is now the bed of love.
No more “the armourers accomplishing the knights
“With busy hammers closing rivets up,
“Give dreadful note of preparation.”
Far other arts the son of Vulcan plies;
To rivet close the indissoluble chain,
To beat the spear into sweet Cupid's dart,
To fan Love's fires, to harness Venus' doves,—
These are thy toils, great Priest of Gretna Green.

The place where the Scottish army lay during the night before the battle of Solway.

ADVICE TO THE BEE .

Mistress Bee, when you hum, whether prose, whether lyrics,
Whether cynical satires, or puff'd panegyrics,
Pitch nor high, nor too low, still avoid in your tones
Th'ill-nature of wasps, and the dulness of drones.

A Periodical Publication under that Title.

THE POETS' LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT;

OR, A DIALOGUE WITH THE NOTARY.

P.
Since Death, I now see, will grant no reprieve,
To the heirs of my body my substance I leave
In equal proportions.

N.
Your substance! good Sir;
I never—but where is it?—pray tell me where?
And as for your heirs, I have sure been in bad luck,
For I thought you had none procreated in wedlock.

P.
My substance, d'ye see Sir, 's these bones and this skin,
And tho' heirs I've had none, or in wedlock, or sin;
Tho' none I have had matrimonio stante,
Of posthumous ones in the grave I'll have plenty.

Q. F. F. Q. S. CLOACINA'S COMPLAINT TO THE COLLEGE OF CLUTHA.

In other Temples, lo, the tapers' ray
Makes midnight almost emulate the day;
Ev'n private shrines the nightly lamp illumes,
And oily incense drowns mephitic fumes,—
Witness that sacred dome, so fine, where John,
Seated with breeches off, yea, And arse on,
Ponders and pores o'er many a learned Work,
Reads Thomas Paine, and tears poor Edmund Burke.

But to my theme—Soon as the wint'ry Sun,
His race nigh finish'd ere 'tis well begun,
Sinks down to rest amidst the Atlantic wave,
Here darkness drear as in Cimmerian cave
Prevails. And, tho' 'tis chief at morning hour
My vot'ries come their orisons to pour,
Yet hither too some pious souls repair
To join with bended knee in evening pray'r:
Then, ah! too oft the offerings, that are paid,
Not on my altar but my throne are laid.
Ev'n Porcus self, tho' provident he keeps
A lantern burning, even while he sleeps,
Not retro in his poop but in his rostrum,
Like Bardolph's,—or as if 'twere stung by œstrum,—
Ev'n he (for oft this lamp of his untrimm'd
Sheds “a religious light,” by snuff bedimm'd)
Ev'n Porcus self with many a grunt and sigh
Commits mistakes, and leaves my shrine a sly.
But 'tis not on my own account alone
That this most just complaint I here propone,

Nor is it with intention to bespatter
My honour'd, venerable Alma Mater,
But (Jove juvante) all to put a stop
To those mishaps, which they who hither grope,
Oft meet withal. For who can unconcern'd
Behold a youth, with gown and hose well darn'd,
(Festina lente quite forgotten in
His hurry) fall, and cut both hose and shin?—
Mistake his exercise for taylor's bill,—
Or 'stead of Homer tear his F---y H---ll,—
Or make Meanderings of Fancy kiss
His breech—instead of Casus Principis:
('Twas darkness thus made Jacob in idea
Kiss Rachel, while he kiss'd the blear'd eyed Leah.)
O then, may you, to whom the power pertains
Of hindering such mishaps, list to my strains;
A suppliant Deity, O view with pity,
Who asks—not tapers dipt in spermaceti,
Who asks no patent lamp, no waxen light,
But, or—such oil as Luss's thrifty Knight

In drops, like laud'num, on his sallad sprinkles,—
Or—farthing candle, such as dimly twinkles
In's bottle, never turn'd to other use,
Save when it holds the currant's vinous juice,
Juice which doth gripe his Knightship's guts full sore,
But other guts, not season'd to it, more,
Juice which, I pray, may be the mortal dose
Of all who these my just demands oppose.

CLOACINA.

Cluthœ. Pridie. Id. Dec. Anno Salutis, MDCCXCIII.

JUS DIVINUM.

Where is there to be found a fool so arrant,
As to deny that I'm the Lord's vicegerent?
For who can say that e'er I have been slack,
To burn, rob, murder, ravish, hew, and hack?
Who is there dares my regal right to doubt,
But trembles for Siberia or the knout,
Proving I am, the just, the mild, the good,
The Lord's anointed—with my husband's blood?

Katherine.

ENGLAND'S FAITHFULNESS TO HER FAITHFUL ALLIES;

OR, THE MONOPOLY OF THE RIVER SCHELDT SUPPORTED.

Their High Mynheerships, thriftier far than we,
Their water keep safe under lock and key;
While—to defend it, and its shores of mud,
We, fools, expend a Zuyder Zea of blood.

A GENTLE EMETIC,

OR A CONJUGAL SALUTE BY A JOVIAL WIFE.

The patience of Socrates ne'er was so tried,
As was Sneakum's by his dearer half;
The Sage's spouse emptied a pot on his head,
Poor Sneakum's, more Liberal,—herself

TO LUCINDA ABSENT,

OR, THE MIRACULOUS MAGNET.

This Magnet, spite of nature's laws,
Still as more distant stronger draws,
And what's more strange, (too well I feel!)
Attracts all hearts but hearts of steel.

TO THE LADIES OF EDINBURGH.

DIRECTIONS FOR A WINDY DAY.

Fair ladies, when the winds blow high,
And mark the finely rounded thigh,
Be sure pull on your silken hose,
If you would wish to please the beaux.
Haste, reef the petticoat amain,
And tuck up tight the flowing train:
Take care to fasten firm the wig,
Lest in the air it dance a jig.
Then sally forth with pointed toe;
Invoke the friendly blast to blow:
“Thrice happy gales,” your lovers cry out,
“That thus luxuriously riot,
“Amidst the charms of nymphs so coy,
“And towzle while we dare not toy.”

DESPAIR.

(BY A DUTCH LOVER.)

This Stream slow winding thro' the fragrant bogs,
With murmurs not its own,—but of its frogs,
(Fair am'rous frogs, that sing their croaking loves
In notes more sweet than notes of cooing doves)
This Stream,—I vow,—ne'er ruffled by a wave,
Shall be my death, the mud below—my grave.

Antiquam in limo ranæ cecinere querelam. Virg.

THE HARP.

The captive Israelites of old,
(As we in Holy Writ are told)
Forgetting Sion's flats and sharps,
Dejected hung their useless harps
The weeping willow trees upon,
Fast by the streams of Babylon.
So I, an exile from thy sight,
In drooping doleful piteous plight,
Have laid at rest my tuneless tongue,
And my harsh harp on willow hung,
In hopes that Zephyr's downy wings,
Sweeping gently o'er the strings,

Softer plainings forth may send
Than those of my unskilful hand,
And, partial to th'Æolian note,
O'er beds of flowers may with it float
To thee, and light the latent fire,
Which rougher gales would make expire.
But if the softest melting airs,
Which Zephyr on his pinions bears,
Thy heart should rather cool than warm,
And, like my freezing notes, do harm;
If disappointment or suspense
Should still point to some future hence,
Suspended on the branch with me
Sweet harp, O sing my elegy!

ON SEEING A LADY DROP HER GARTER.

I'd not change place with Prince or King,
Or any such poor paultry thing;
No,—could I this sad being barter,
O that I were that happy garter!
More boldly then I'd press my plea,
And, 'stead of kneeling, clasp thy knee.

TO A LADY WHO LENT ME HER FAN DURING A STORM OF LIGHTNING.

Fair nymph, a stranger all unknown
Would bless thee for thy charming loan;
But, ah! he feels the lightning's gleams
Are far less dangerous than the beams
Of thy bright eye.

APOLOGY TO THE SAME LADY FOR ALLOWING HER FAN TO BE WET BY THE RAIN.

How many thousands of ill-fated
Wretches have their ruin dated
From gifts or loans! A non pareille
Was th'cause why father Adam fell.
Great Hercules his death-blow got
By putting on a gifted coat.
Poor Phaeton danc'd a headlong jig
For borrowing his father's Gig.
Troy, proof against all human force,
Blazed round Minerva's hobby horse:
To me a Fan had done the same,
Had blown my heart into a flame,

While Cupid, 'mongst the radii hid,
With darts the conflagration fed:—
What could I,—then,—but what I have done?
What else in such case would have saved one?
What—but drench the Urchin's wing?
What, but wet his sounding string?

AN IMPROVEMENT ON THE ART OF POETRY,

SUGGESTED AND EXEMPLIFIED.

Rhyme should not be degraded so as to
Chime on the syllable last of the verse:
Sure, if to set your best foot foremost be
Your rule in th'art of life—why not in this?

TO A LADY, ON HER SEEMING VAIN OF HER BLACK EYES.

Let others praise with ill-coin'd lies
The brightness of their fair one's eyes,
To thine, sweet Lady, I'll be juster,
Their very darkness is their lustre.
Ev'n in the sable gloom of night,
Like grimalkin's, the startled sight
They strike, or as the skin of whiting
Stuck on the wall poor imps to frighten.
In short, so piercing is their ray,
I wonder how in mirror they
Themselves can view; or how th'reflection,
Don't spoil your matchless fair complection;
Or how, when hearts are scorch'd to cinders,
Your looking-glass don't fly to flinders.

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.

“Ah flore venustatis abrepta!”

Death poized his dart with slow protracted aim:
With look serene her fate Lucinda viewed;
She, beauteous flower, smiled drooping o'er the stream
Which undermined her root,—smiled, for she saw
Heaven cloudless pictured in the crystal flood.

CLEMENCY.

And Pharoah hardened his heart at this time also, neither would be let the people go. Exodus c. viii. v. 32.

The ruffian Murderer is sentenc'd to die,
And Slavery's proscribed by the general cry;
But a junto usurping the national powers,
While the nation most meanly, most abjectly cowrs,
Grants a respite of four years—to cool the mad fever,—
Then, bolder become,—a free pardon for ever.

IMITATIONS AND TRANSLATIONS.

EPISTOLA AD TORQUATUM.

IMITATED.

[_]

Hor. Lib. 1. Epist. v.

Gif an auld timmer-bottom'd chair
Your doup can thole, and gif for fare
Ye wad na think yoursel far wrang
Wi' a farle 'noth a roasted whang,
Till gloamin time at hame I'll wait,
In hopes that ye'll come o'er the gate.
I'll gie you drink your craig to kittle,
That's eilans wi' the lousy title,
Coft by that scat-necked loun,
Kent by the name o' Clerk ------.
But gin ye like some ither kind,
Ye've naething but to speak your mind.

My ingle's bleezing unco canty;
My plenishing's fu clean and dainty.
Lay by a' thought now for a wee,
And think na o' the penny fee.
The morn, ye ken, 's a hauliday,
And we may either sleep or play.
Wi' cracks the time till braid day-light,
Will seem as short's a simmer night.

What needs I care for gear and gowd,
Unless to use them I'm allow'd?
Wha, for the sake o' his neist heir,
Keeps his ain wame tume, scrimp, and bare,
And feeds upon the husk and hule,
Is just the neist bore to a fool.
I'll now begin to drink and sing,
My pen I'll in the ingle fling;
I care na tho' wi' girnin chaft
The warl a' sou'd ca' me daft.

Ken ye o' ought drink canna do?—
The closest hunks whan he is fou

Speaks out his mind;—drink realizes
Our hopes and wisses; and it heezes
The coward's switherin heart to fecht:
Frae aff the mind it lifts the weight
O' ilka care; in ilka art
It learns a man to play his part.
Wha, whan h' as taen his proper tift,
Was ever kent to want the gift
O's gab? what puir man whan he's tozy,
But spends as he ware bein and cozy.

Ye need na tell me to tak care,
To hae the buirdclaith clean and fair:
To hae the dishes glancin a'
That they yoursel to you may shaw;
And no to bid 'mang friens wh'are merry
Folk wha wad clepe things to the Shirra,
Or chiels wha think that they are great,
Because they hae a great estate.

Ye'll meet wi' ------ and wi' ---
And ---, unless some lassie ---
Or ither tryst (the Deil ---
And ony thing that hauds a ------)
Keep him awa. Attour ye've leave
To bring a frien or twa i' your sleeve.
But mind whan fok o'er close ye stech,
It sometimes gars them sweat and pech.

Write me how mony ye're to bring:
Your caigh and care ahint you fling;
And, while puir bodies on the row,
I'th' kitchen stan their cuds to chow,
Steal out and never fash your pow.

HORACE.

AD VIRGILIUM Ode 12. Book 4.

The westlin wind, the Springtime's crony,
Now skiffs alang the sea sae bonny,
And fills ilk sail. Now Crummie's cloots
Dent a' the lone: now to the coots
In meadow lawn, umquhile sae hard,
Ye'll sink, and ablins will be lair'd:
The burns, wi' snaw brie fill'd, nae mair
Rush, roarin like the Bars o' Ayr.
The Swallow now, puir singin sorner,
Clags up her nest i'th' winnock corner:
Welcome she is to ilka house,
Exceptin his, the blasted Louse ,
Wha rave her wark o' mony a day,
In vengeance 'cause she staw his strae.

101

The Shepherd, tether'd to the braes
O' black Lochaber, sweetly plays,
To his lean flock, a highland spring,
(Sic as auld Ossian ance did sing,)
Ilk han' by turns, wi' motion quick,
Now the fiddle, now the fiddle-stick.

This heat gies ane a drouth, my frien,
Sae gif to lay your lugs ye green
In lochs o' punch, tak tent to hae
Twa lemons in your pouch,—or mae:
A pouchfu's able to wyle out,
Frae th'awmry neuk, my graybeard stout
And sonsy, fitted weel to brew
In your sunk saul hope ever new:
For synin down, it's unco rare,
The bitter wagang o' ilk care.

103

Haste ye, and dinna switherin stan,
But linkin tak your fit i' your han;
And dinna in your haste forget
To bring the Uncos pipin het.
Tell us how our auld Frien's the ---
Stan' 'gainst the warl crouse and stainch,
And how the bonny Fernig foichals
Gie G------n thieves and slaves their dichals:
I'm no for letting ye, ye see,
(As I ware rich) gang lawin free.
Awa wi' teaglin, and the euk
O' stappin mair in your poke neuk:
And now forget, as lang's ye dow,
Memento mori, and Death's pow:
Season your wisdom, now and than,
W'a curn o' folly i' the pan:
Trust me wha'm growin auld and keisint,
That weeltimed daffin's unco pleasant.

Corrupted perhaps from Luss.

105

TO HIS BOOK.

[_]

Hor. Epist. 20. Lib. 1.

Ye've now begun to cast sheeps een
At yon Beuk Shop; and in caufs skin,
Forsuith, wi' buirds gilt, sheen, and braw,
Ye're unco fain yoursel to shaw.
Locks, coffers, keys and kists ye hate,
And whate'er pleases ane that's blate:
And yawmer 'cause ye're no allow'd
To mix amang the dinsome crowd,—
No sae brought up. E'en gang your wa,
But mind there nae return ava.
I've won mysel a bonny pirn,
Ye'll say, whan critics gybe and girn,
Or whan the reader, gauntin elf,
Chirts you into the crowded shelf,
Neist bletherin Burke, the Windsor sentry,
Wha' sang the Gauls were in the entry .

107

Now, gif the greatness o' your faut
Wad let me spae what's to come o't,—
To th'Lan' o' Cakes ye will be dear
Nae mair than for some twa three year:
Belyve the creishy croud will haunle
Your page, and soil't: ablins some caunle
Doup ye maun kiss, (far better that,
Than do the same to Lords, I wat:)
Whatreks! puir, unkent, cowrin sinner,
Some lazy moths will mak their dinner
Upon your leaves: or else may be
Twa baubees worth o' snuff or tea
Ye're doom'd to swathe. I in my sleeve
Will laugh fu' hearty whan ye grieve,
And say (like him wha on a day
His cross-grain'd ass shot o'er the brae,
On seein' that he could na stop her)
Wha will to Couper will to Couper.
Forby a' that;—haverin Auld Age,
Pointin alang your title page,
Will ding, wi meikle dule and wae,
Into puir gets, the A, B, C.

109

In winter whan the bleezin ingle
Draws round it fouk to hear your jingle,
Tell them, that I hae scarce a gill
O' gentle bluid for kings to spill:
Tell that, in place o' the goose pen
Used by my forbears, I hae taen
A pouk o' Pegasus's wing,
On whilk heez'd up I scove and sing,
Sae, as ye stow the stunted tree,
That puddock-stool my pedigree,
A branch o' laurel ye may eik.
Tell them, too, how I never seek
To fleech and please the rich or great.
O'th' outward man I neist maun treat:
Say, then, I am a lang black chiel
Twa ell amaist frae head to heel.
Afore the time I'm some thocht gray
And lyart. In a sunny day
I like to beik. Wi' sudden low
My anger's just a tap o' tow;

111

But soon gaes out. Gif fouk soud spier
How auld I am; tell them,—that year
Whan daft Britannia turn'd knight errant,
An' fee't that loun S---'s tyrant
To ser' himsel, I was just then
Maist four times twa, and twa times ten.

Atque hic auratis volitans argenteus anser
Porticibus, Gallos in limine adesse canebat.

Virg. Æn. 8.

112

SAPHO TO PHAON.

BY A SCOTCHMAN.

“FERVIDUM INGENIUM SCOTORUM.”

THE snows (no longer virgin snows) betray
Where oft entwined in am'rous folds we lay;
I kiss the place which once was press'd by you,
And all with tears the melting wreaths bedew.

113

EPIGRAMMA

G. BUCHANANI.

HAPPY is he who sees thee sweetly smile,
Happier who hears the music of thy voice,
A demi-god is he who kisseth thee,
Who clasps thee yielding in his arms—a God.

115

VERSES IN LATIN.

“Ista tamen mala sunt: quasi nos manifesta negemus;
“Hæc mala sunt: sed tu non meliora facis.”
Mart. lib. 2. Ep. 8.

117

THE MUSE's PRELIMINARY EXPOSTULATION AND ADVICE.

------ Vetuit me tale voce Quirinus
Post mediam noctem visus ubi somnia vera.
Hor.

To print or not my Latin verses?
I ask'd the Muse; quoth she, “Most arses
“(The seat of English judgment) are
“Become so nice, you may despair
“To please in English, or in Latin,
“Unless your paper's soft as satin.
“But why this jargon—cur Latina?
“Whence comes this rabies canina?

118

“'Tis sure at best a foolish freak,
“To chuse to bark, when you can speak.
“Well then, if you'll take my advice,
“The actual cautery to each place
“That bears of canine jaw the trace,”—
“Alas,” I stopt her, “would you bid
“M' incur the guilt of suicide?
“Would y'ave me turn felo de se,
“And light up an auto-da-fe
“Of my dear self, like Indian relicts,
“Where widowhood's held worst of delicts?
“No,—I reject your harsh prescription,
“For if, t'each place of the description,
“Which you have given, 'twere applied,
“From cap-à-pe I should be fried.