Miscellanies in prose and verse on several occasions, by Claudero [i.e. James Wilson], son of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter. The Fourth Edition with large Additions |
 | A COLLECTION OF POEMS. |
 |
|
 | Miscellanies in prose and verse |  |
A COLLECTION OF POEMS.
The ECHO of the Royal Porch of the Palace of HOLY-ROOD-HOUSE, which fell under Military Execution, Anno 1753.
Ye Sons of Mars, with black cockade,Who wear the gun and murd'ring blade,
Against your foes in battle hot,
And die, or conquer on the spot;
To devastation ye are bred,
By blood ye swear, and blood's your trade.
No--- (Echo then reply'd aloud,)
They do not always deal in blood;
Nor yet in breaking human bones;
For Quixotte-like they knock down stones.
Regardless they the mattock ply,
To root our Scots antiquity.
2
Hath spared been by Scottish men.
As Judah's porches, sacred mine,
Where Kings did rule by right divine.
Your antient Kings did enter here,
Tho' strangers now for many a year;
And many barons in my sight,
Were honour'd with the title, Knight,
Whose race now tamely sees my fall,
Relentless at my mournful call.
When Red-coats struck, I loud did shriek,
And to Auld Reikie thus did speak:
What is my crime? Oh! what my blot?
Auld Reikie cry'd, Thou'rt an old Scot.
What then? my Echo loud did cry,
Must Scots antiquity now die?
Yes, cry'd Auld Reikie, die you must,
For --- at you has a disgust.
My cross likewise, of old renown,
Will next to you be tumbled down;
And by degrees each antient place
Will perish by this modern race.
My Echo then did loud rebound,
With cries which shook the neighb'ring ground;
And, all amaz'd, the soldier bands
Suspended stood with trembling hands;
While these sad accents I let fly,
Which sharply pierc'd the azure sky:
Adieu, Edina, now adieu,
Fair Scotia's glory's gone.
This said, she bow'd her antient head,
And gave the final groan.
Edina echo'd then aloud,
And bid her long farewel;
The Calton-hill and Arthur's seat
Did ring her parting knell.
3
The last Speech and dying words of the CROSS of Edinburgh, which was hanged, drawn and quartered, on Monday the 15th of March 1756, for the horrid crime of being an Incumbrance to the Street.
Ye sons of Scotia, mourn and weep,
Express your grief with sorrow deep,
Let aged sires be bath'd in tears,
And ev'ry heart be fill'd with fears;
Let rugged rocks with grief abound,
And Echos multiply the sound;
Let rivers, hills, let woods and plains,
Let morning dews, let winds and rains,
United join to aid my woe,
And loudly mourn my overthrow.—
For Arthur's Ov'n and Edinburgh Cross,
Have, by new schemers, got a toss;
We, heels o'er head, are tumbled down,
The modern taste is London town.
Express your grief with sorrow deep,
Let aged sires be bath'd in tears,
And ev'ry heart be fill'd with fears;
Let rugged rocks with grief abound,
And Echos multiply the sound;
Let rivers, hills, let woods and plains,
Let morning dews, let winds and rains,
United join to aid my woe,
And loudly mourn my overthrow.—
For Arthur's Ov'n and Edinburgh Cross,
Have, by new schemers, got a toss;
We, heels o'er head, are tumbled down,
The modern taste is London town.
I was built up in Gothic times,
And have stood sev'ral hundred reigns;
Sacred my mem'ry and my name,
For kings and queens I did proclaim.
I peace and war did oft declare,
And rous'd my country ev'ry where:
Your ancestors around me walk'd;
Your kings and nobles 'side me talk'd;
And lads and lasses, with delight,
Set tryst with me to meet at night;
No tryster e'er was at a loss,
For why, I'll meet you at the Cross.
I country people did direct
Through all the city with respect,
Who, missing me, will look as droll
As mariners without the pole.
On me great men have lost their lives,
And for a maiden left their wives.
Low rogues likewise oft got a peg
With turnip, t---d, or rotten egg;
And when the mob did miss their butt,
I was bedaub'd like any slut.
With loyal men, on loyal days,
I drest myself in lovely bays,
And with sweet apples treat the croud,
While they huzza'd around me loud.
And have stood sev'ral hundred reigns;
Sacred my mem'ry and my name,
For kings and queens I did proclaim.
I peace and war did oft declare,
And rous'd my country ev'ry where:
Your ancestors around me walk'd;
Your kings and nobles 'side me talk'd;
And lads and lasses, with delight,
Set tryst with me to meet at night;
No tryster e'er was at a loss,
For why, I'll meet you at the Cross.
4
Through all the city with respect,
Who, missing me, will look as droll
As mariners without the pole.
On me great men have lost their lives,
And for a maiden left their wives.
Low rogues likewise oft got a peg
With turnip, t---d, or rotten egg;
And when the mob did miss their butt,
I was bedaub'd like any slut.
With loyal men, on loyal days,
I drest myself in lovely bays,
And with sweet apples treat the croud,
While they huzza'd around me loud.
Professions many have I seen,
And never have disturbed been,
I've seen the Tory party slain,
And Whigs exulting o'er the plain:
I've seen again the Tories rise,
And with loud shouting pierce the skies,
Then crown their king, and chace the Whig,
From Pentland-hill to Bothwel-brig.
I've seen the cov'nants by all sworn,
And likewise seen them burnt and torn.
I neutral stood, as peaceful Quaker,
With neither side was I partaker.
And never have disturbed been,
I've seen the Tory party slain,
And Whigs exulting o'er the plain:
I've seen again the Tories rise,
And with loud shouting pierce the skies,
Then crown their king, and chace the Whig,
From Pentland-hill to Bothwel-brig.
I've seen the cov'nants by all sworn,
And likewise seen them burnt and torn.
I neutral stood, as peaceful Quaker,
With neither side was I partaker.
I wish my life had longer been,
That I might greater ferlies seen;
Or else like other things decay,
Which Time alone doth waste away:
But since I now must lose my head,
I, at my last, this lesson read:
“Tho' wealth, and youth, and beauty shine,
“And all the graces round you twine,
“Think on your end, nor proud behave,
“There's nothing sure this side the grave.”
That I might greater ferlies seen;
Or else like other things decay,
Which Time alone doth waste away:
But since I now must lose my head,
I, at my last, this lesson read:
“Tho' wealth, and youth, and beauty shine,
“And all the graces round you twine,
“Think on your end, nor proud behave,
“There's nothing sure this side the grave.”
Ye jolly youths, with richest wine,
Who drunk my dirge, for your propine,
I do bequeath my lasting boon:
May heav'n preserve you late and soon;
May royal wine, in royal bowls,
And lovely women chear your souls,
Till by old age you gently die,
To live immortal in the sky.
Who drunk my dirge, for your propine,
I do bequeath my lasting boon:
May heav'n preserve you late and soon;
5
And lovely women chear your souls,
Till by old age you gently die,
To live immortal in the sky.
To own my faults I have no will,
For I have done both good and ill:
As to the crime for which I die,
To my last gasp, Not guilty, I.
But to this magisterial hate
I shall assign the pristine date.
When the intrepid, matchless CHARLES
Came here with many Highland Carls,
And o'er my top, in public sight,
Proclaim'd aloud his Father's Right;
From that day forth it was agreed,
That I should as a Rebel bleed;
And at this time they think it meet
To snatch my fabric off the street,
Lest I should tell to them once more
The tale I told ten years before.
For I have done both good and ill:
As to the crime for which I die,
To my last gasp, Not guilty, I.
But to this magisterial hate
I shall assign the pristine date.
When the intrepid, matchless CHARLES
Came here with many Highland Carls,
And o'er my top, in public sight,
Proclaim'd aloud his Father's Right;
From that day forth it was agreed,
That I should as a Rebel bleed;
And at this time they think it meet
To snatch my fabric off the street,
Lest I should tell to them once more
The tale I told ten years before.
At my destroyers bear no grudge,
Nor do you stain their mason-lodge,
Tho' well may all by-standers see
That better masons built up me.
The royal statue in the close
Will share the fate of me, poor Cross;
Heav'ns, earth, and seas, all in a range,
Like me, will perish for Exchange.
Nor do you stain their mason-lodge,
Tho' well may all by-standers see
That better masons built up me.
The royal statue in the close
Will share the fate of me, poor Cross;
Heav'ns, earth, and seas, all in a range,
Like me, will perish for Exchange.
A piece of very great antiquity, the property of a gentleman near Falkirk, who destroyed it to build up a mill-dam-head on the river Carron.—But the river (swelled, as it were, with resentment) soon swept it off.
The serious Advice and Exhortation of the Royal Exchange to the Cross of Edinburgh, immediately before its execution.
My aged parent, hear my voice,
And cease to make this doleful noise;
Submit yourself unto your doom,
Royal Exchange comes in your room;
My polish'd stones, of modern date,
One day will share my parent's fate;
And in your fall mine own I see:
What's modern now will antient be.
All nature changes in its turn,
Worlds sometimes drown, and sometimes burn;
Yea, heav'n shrinks below the rod
Of the eternal changeless GOD.
And cease to make this doleful noise;
Submit yourself unto your doom,
Royal Exchange comes in your room;
6
One day will share my parent's fate;
And in your fall mine own I see:
What's modern now will antient be.
All nature changes in its turn,
Worlds sometimes drown, and sometimes burn;
Yea, heav'n shrinks below the rod
Of the eternal changeless GOD.
To your last words I was attent,
Which made my heart of stone relent;
Your aged speeches, full of sense,
Acquir'd by long experience,
Made zealous Whigs, and hopeful Tories,
Jointly thank you for your stories;
Both parties herein did agree,
That you was used cruelly.
When honest men are high in place,
Rogues are hung up with cover'd face;
When rogues have power, sham justice too
Will hang the honest up like you.
The Luckenbooths, Weigh-house, and Guard,
By the new scheme, will not be spar'd;
For modish people think it meet,
That houses be swept off the street.
Into my bowels as an urn,
You'll all be bury'd in your turn;
Then, phœnix-like, again you'll rise,
And soar with me into the skies.
Grand is the scheme, and its intent
Is order, use, and ornament.
My builders skill'd are in each lecture
Of masonry and architecture;
Can build a Cross, or pull it down,
And from a rock extract a town;
Can work to old taste or to new,
Therefore the antients they out-do.
Your crimes, dear father, now repent,
Mourn for the life that you have spent;
For witness often you have stood,
And have suck'd up much gentle blood.
A vi'lent death therefore you share,
That all blood-suckers may beware.
Num'rous examples testify,
That blood for blood doth vengeance cry;
None merciful will mourn the loss
Of you, a cruel bloody Cross.
Which made my heart of stone relent;
Your aged speeches, full of sense,
Acquir'd by long experience,
Made zealous Whigs, and hopeful Tories,
Jointly thank you for your stories;
Both parties herein did agree,
That you was used cruelly.
When honest men are high in place,
Rogues are hung up with cover'd face;
When rogues have power, sham justice too
Will hang the honest up like you.
The Luckenbooths, Weigh-house, and Guard,
By the new scheme, will not be spar'd;
For modish people think it meet,
That houses be swept off the street.
Into my bowels as an urn,
You'll all be bury'd in your turn;
Then, phœnix-like, again you'll rise,
And soar with me into the skies.
Grand is the scheme, and its intent
Is order, use, and ornament.
My builders skill'd are in each lecture
Of masonry and architecture;
Can build a Cross, or pull it down,
And from a rock extract a town;
Can work to old taste or to new,
Therefore the antients they out-do.
Your crimes, dear father, now repent,
Mourn for the life that you have spent;
For witness often you have stood,
And have suck'd up much gentle blood.
7
That all blood-suckers may beware.
Num'rous examples testify,
That blood for blood doth vengeance cry;
None merciful will mourn the loss
Of you, a cruel bloody Cross.
On Repairing of the Abbey-kirk of Holy-rood-House.
Have I been sleeping, in a trance, or dead?Sure now I live, and rear my antient head;
Then tell me, Calton-hill and Arthur's seat,
Why I'm reviv'd and wakened of late,
What is the cause? oh! tell, you buildings rare,
No king frequents the royal house of pray'r.
Why have I silent been these hundred years?
My altar quite forsook: no pray'rs, no tears,
T'implore heavn's mercy on a sinful land,
And deprecate God's wrath when nigh at hand?
None of the royal race sure here remain,
Or, if they do, apostatiz'd they reign,
Neglecting heav'n, and ev'ry other thing,
That peace and honour to their subjects bring.
A STUART was king when I fell fast asleep,
Then bishops here did fervent worship keep:
Their successors, I fear, quite void of grace,
Have ceas'd to worship in this holy place.
Are pious churchmen from this kingdom gone?
Have Scottish kings now abdicate their throne?
Are kings and rev'rend bishops in exile?
And hath religion fled fair Scotia's isle?
Yet, if they're banish'd, sure they'll fast come home,
Else, why do masons now repair my dome?
Tell me, if Presbyt'ry, that upstart new,
Has come in place of the Catholics true?
Perhaps they proudly aim at nothing less
Than my devoted walls now to possess.
8
Catholics me possess'd not long ago,
With pious hearts they worship'd God with tears,
Tho' they have been suppress'd these many years.
Long have I slept, and wish'd to have slept on,
Till rouz'd by Catholic devotion.
Heretics much I hate, not orthodox,
Fomenting dire discord, like old John Knox;
Who rend the church for their own private views,
More hurt they do than unbelieving Jews.
Where is the Abbey Porch, the city Cross?
To know this place, I'm greatly at a loss.
Such changes much my aged sight confound;
Except these hills, all things are chang'd around.
The river keeps its course upon the north,
I think they call it still the Frith of Forth;
But all things else wear quite a diff'rent face,
The Scots united seem to Saxon race.
Where is your king and Scottish parliament?
Why was I wak'd to see this dire event?
Where are your nobles now? they seem but few,
And what remain seem careless of you too.
Where are your pow'rful chiefs of ev'ry clan,
Whose native valour always led the van
Of conqu'ring armies, whose resistless might
Great vict'ries won, defending Scotland's right?
Are they exil'd, or do they now bear arms,
To shield themselves from foreign foes alarms?
Your sons impress'd, and forc'd to foreign fields,
To draw their swords, and to oppose their shields:
Such changes for the worse add to my grief,
Where strays the hero wishes you relief?
It cruel was to set within my view
Impending ills that hang o'er Scotland now;
Happier, had I been still allowed to ly
Dormant, or dead, to all eternity.
9
Scotland in Tears for the horrid Treatment of their Kings Sepulchres.
Rage, vengeance, fury, aid my pen,
To lash the worst of wicked men;
A sordid wretch, of honour void,
And ev'ry virtue else beside;
From dunghill sprung; of breeding mean;
A beast in human shape unclean.—
Mistake me not, I do not blame
The country fair from whence he came,
There's miscreants both here and there,
Which neither kingdom ought to spare.
To lash the worst of wicked men;
A sordid wretch, of honour void,
And ev'ry virtue else beside;
From dunghill sprung; of breeding mean;
A beast in human shape unclean.—
Mistake me not, I do not blame
The country fair from whence he came,
There's miscreants both here and there,
Which neither kingdom ought to spare.
Let Scotia's sons then hear my theme,
And join to curse the hated name.
Of this vile wretch, who, in disdain,
Did our most hallow'd places stain.
With sacrilegious disrespect,
An office-house he did erect,
Within the Abbey's sacred shrine,
Where long the dust of kings had lain,
Both undisturb'd, and much rever'd,
By pious Scots held in regard.
And join to curse the hated name.
Of this vile wretch, who, in disdain,
Did our most hallow'd places stain.
With sacrilegious disrespect,
An office-house he did erect,
Within the Abbey's sacred shrine,
Where long the dust of kings had lain,
Both undisturb'd, and much rever'd,
By pious Scots held in regard.
Our kings, our princes, there do ly,
Whose souls are now above the sky;
Those royal heroes, whose command
Extended over Scotia's land;
The darlings of their country too,
Who made its en'mies often bow;
In bloody fields who dangers shar'd,
And oft the arms of England dar'd;
Must now be basely shit upon,
By an unworthy English drone,
Who boasts himself, to his disgrace,
He stain'd with dung our kings bare face.
Whose souls are now above the sky;
Those royal heroes, whose command
Extended over Scotia's land;
The darlings of their country too,
Who made its en'mies often bow;
In bloody fields who dangers shar'd,
And oft the arms of England dar'd;
Must now be basely shit upon,
By an unworthy English drone,
Who boasts himself, to his disgrace,
He stain'd with dung our kings bare face.
O! royal George, our sov'reign dear,
Unto this story lend an ear;
Hear how the bones of antient kings
Are treated like to common things!
Our royal Jameses, from whose veins
The blood did flow by which George reigns,
Their sacred dust, by vile intent,
Lies mingled with base excrement.
By punishment severe and ample,
To all the world make him example
That no presumpt'ous wretch again
May royal ashes thus profane.
Unto this story lend an ear;
10
Are treated like to common things!
Our royal Jameses, from whose veins
The blood did flow by which George reigns,
Their sacred dust, by vile intent,
Lies mingled with base excrement.
By punishment severe and ample,
To all the world make him example
That no presumpt'ous wretch again
May royal ashes thus profane.
Edina's sons, indignant view,
The gross affront that's done to you;
Shew your resentment at this deed,
For which all loyal hearts do bleed;
And hate the rogue who did the blame,
But not the place from whence he came.
'Tis liker to Batavian tricks,
Who trample on the crucifix,
And treat religion with disdain,
In order to enhance their gain:
But England's sons, more pious far,
Are good in peace, and brave in war;
Fair virtue is the only pole,
By which they steer unto the goal
Of honour, trade and happiness,
And heav'n rewards them with success,
Such sacrilegious wicked men
Are held by them in great disdain;
And fame records, perhaps 'tis true,
They also gave this rogue his due;
When with impious breath he vaunted,
How he had shit on kings undaunted;
They whip'd him with great indignation,
And almost sent him to damnation.
Let Britons all his crime detest,
And scarcely wish the villain blest;
While injur'd Scots his due afford,
By dragging him thro' Tumble-Turd.
The gross affront that's done to you;
Shew your resentment at this deed,
For which all loyal hearts do bleed;
And hate the rogue who did the blame,
But not the place from whence he came.
'Tis liker to Batavian tricks,
Who trample on the crucifix,
And treat religion with disdain,
In order to enhance their gain:
But England's sons, more pious far,
Are good in peace, and brave in war;
Fair virtue is the only pole,
By which they steer unto the goal
Of honour, trade and happiness,
And heav'n rewards them with success,
Such sacrilegious wicked men
Are held by them in great disdain;
And fame records, perhaps 'tis true,
They also gave this rogue his due;
When with impious breath he vaunted,
How he had shit on kings undaunted;
They whip'd him with great indignation,
And almost sent him to damnation.
Let Britons all his crime detest,
And scarcely wish the villain blest;
While injur'd Scots his due afford,
By dragging him thro' Tumble-Turd.
11
An Elegy on the much lamented Death of Quaker Erskine, or Quakerism compared with Presbytery.
What dreary news is this I hear?What doleful tale thus strikes mine ear?
No common loss sure this must be,
That draweth tears from ev'ry eye.
No trivial loss, the loss is great,
Mourn, mourn, the church, and mourn, the state;
Mourn, Ed'nburgh, both suburbs and city,
For Erskine's death, be fill'd with pity.
From youth-hood to his dying day
He to us both did preach and pray;
The gospel free he did dispense,
And for it ne'er took pounds or pence,
Unlike the canters of our day,
Who'll neither to us preach or pray,
Unless we pay two thousand merks,
Besides their Beadles charge and clerks;
And tho' they have the foresaid rent,
Yet de'il ha'e them if they're content
But do apply to parliament,
Their stipend further to augment.
Oh happy country sure and blest,
Where from the clergy they find rest!
But where shall we this kingdom find?
Not till in heav'n, this is design'd.
Here Gib damns Ralph, and Ralph damns Gib,
Both damn the Cameronian tribe;
While Whitefield comes, prays God save a',
Then takes our cash, and runs awa':
Unlike those, like 'postle Paul,
Erskine liv'd by honest call;
Our souls with gospel he did cheer,
Our bodies too with ale and beer.
Gratis he gospel got, and gave away,
For ale and beer he only made us pay;
12
For which in heav'n he's highly blest.
If there were stipend in the case,
Fast for his kirk our priests would chase;
But where there is not store of wealth,
Souls are not worth the cure of health;
And for his kirk our clergy will not plea,
Vacant his kirk but not his brewerie.
Each canting presbyter, when he dies,
Gets to his fame high elegies,
And, whether they deserve or not,
They are set forth without a blot.
But here, alas! no risk we run,
His character can't be out-done;
For truth and honest probity,
No man e'er liv'd could him out-vy.
Some chuse Mass James, some chuse Mass John,
Some curse the power of a patron;
But all are in a gross mistake,
'Till they convert to honest Quake.
Now honest Quakers, best of men!
Mourn, mourn for him with heavy mane;
For by yea and nay, or by G*d d---n,
The Quaker was an honest man.
A Farewell to the General Assembly.
Ye fleshers, sheathe your reeking knives;
Of GOD's creation spare the lives;
Relent the slaughter you have made,
And mourn a moment o'er the dead!
Of GOD's creation spare the lives;
Relent the slaughter you have made,
And mourn a moment o'er the dead!
Great bulls did roar, with dying groans,
And slaughter'd were for our Mass Johns;
The smaller cattle, calves and lambs,
Were snatched from their mournful dams;
At the Assembly lost their lives,
To stuff the clergy and their wives,
Nor did the grunting nasty sow,
Th'abomination of a Jew,
Escape the lust of this black-band,
Who raise a dearth o'er all the land.
The feather'd tribe, goose, duck, and hen,
Were in infinite numbers slain;
To satisfy their hunger keen,
Such devastation ne'er was seen.
The Forth was plunder'd of its fish,
That they might have a dainty dish;
Salmon, cod, and cabelow,
Into their bellies they did stow;
At oysters too they did not bogle,
Which made them at our ladies ogle,
And carnal weapons keenly ply,
Well cover'd with hypocrisy.
But to their glebes they now are fled,
With their big guts well stuff'd and fed.
Each parish now has got its drone,
To croak, and hum, and howl, and groan,
Except the priest of Durisdeer,
Depos'd for loving carnal cheer,
Tho' all the brethren must confess,
They love it either more or less.
And slaughter'd were for our Mass Johns;
The smaller cattle, calves and lambs,
Were snatched from their mournful dams;
At the Assembly lost their lives,
To stuff the clergy and their wives,
13
Th'abomination of a Jew,
Escape the lust of this black-band,
Who raise a dearth o'er all the land.
The feather'd tribe, goose, duck, and hen,
Were in infinite numbers slain;
To satisfy their hunger keen,
Such devastation ne'er was seen.
The Forth was plunder'd of its fish,
That they might have a dainty dish;
Salmon, cod, and cabelow,
Into their bellies they did stow;
At oysters too they did not bogle,
Which made them at our ladies ogle,
And carnal weapons keenly ply,
Well cover'd with hypocrisy.
But to their glebes they now are fled,
With their big guts well stuff'd and fed.
Each parish now has got its drone,
To croak, and hum, and howl, and groan,
Except the priest of Durisdeer,
Depos'd for loving carnal cheer,
Tho' all the brethren must confess,
They love it either more or less.
Now gladness shines in every face,
Since their fat paunches left the place;
We only dread the coming year
Of their assembled bellies here.
Since their fat paunches left the place;
We only dread the coming year
Of their assembled bellies here.
CLAUDERO to WHITEFIELD.
Now, zealous pig-ey'd English quack,
Arriv'd again with loaded pack,
Pray what now have you got to sell?
Can you insure Scots souls from hell;
Or do you come to cry, Repent,
Give me your money, I'm a saint,
And in return you shall have grace
To put into your money's place.
Pray, can you show a nearer road
How men may reach the bless'd abode,
Than pulpiteers into our isle?
Or do our preachers us beguile?
That you thus singly do oppose
Yourself against spiritual foes.
Plays, balls, assemblies, and the de'il,
Your zealous fury often feel.
The play-house, Sir, you ought to spare,
For often there you had a share;
The stage supply'd you, in your need,
'Till you fell into better bread.
Like Æsop's daw, you've turn'd your coat,
Among the pigeons now you've got,
Where you are well supply'd and fed
By honest doves that are blind-led:
But, dread the cheat may come to light,
And blinded pigeons get their sight;
Then you'll be stript of all that's good,
And sent to starve into the wood.
Can you afford us cheaper meal?
Or from the country drive the de'il?
Then chain him fast up with a bridle;
And so lay all our clergy idle?
Can you make Whig and Tory 'gree,
And beat the French by land and sea?
Can you from press bands ease our fears,
Recruit our fleets with volunteers?
If you can all these things do well,
None here more welcome than yoursell;
But if you cannot these effect,
To England go and break your neck.
No more your accent we admire,
Nor yet your blazing zealous fire;
High sound for sense no more we'll take,
Though you should cry till your heart ake.
With sectaries you never join,
But slyly glean from all the coin;
An instance of your sordid view:
'Tis money, Whitefield, pleases you.
Arriv'd again with loaded pack,
Pray what now have you got to sell?
Can you insure Scots souls from hell;
Or do you come to cry, Repent,
Give me your money, I'm a saint,
And in return you shall have grace
To put into your money's place.
14
How men may reach the bless'd abode,
Than pulpiteers into our isle?
Or do our preachers us beguile?
That you thus singly do oppose
Yourself against spiritual foes.
Plays, balls, assemblies, and the de'il,
Your zealous fury often feel.
The play-house, Sir, you ought to spare,
For often there you had a share;
The stage supply'd you, in your need,
'Till you fell into better bread.
Like Æsop's daw, you've turn'd your coat,
Among the pigeons now you've got,
Where you are well supply'd and fed
By honest doves that are blind-led:
But, dread the cheat may come to light,
And blinded pigeons get their sight;
Then you'll be stript of all that's good,
And sent to starve into the wood.
Can you afford us cheaper meal?
Or from the country drive the de'il?
Then chain him fast up with a bridle;
And so lay all our clergy idle?
Can you make Whig and Tory 'gree,
And beat the French by land and sea?
Can you from press bands ease our fears,
Recruit our fleets with volunteers?
If you can all these things do well,
None here more welcome than yoursell;
But if you cannot these effect,
To England go and break your neck.
No more your accent we admire,
Nor yet your blazing zealous fire;
High sound for sense no more we'll take,
Though you should cry till your heart ake.
With sectaries you never join,
But slyly glean from all the coin;
An instance of your sordid view:
'Tis money, Whitefield, pleases you.
15
Be not such fools, my countrymen,
Nor suffer rogues your coin to drain;
These foreign quacks are whillie-whaws,
Keep your fish-guts to your sea-maws.
Nor suffer rogues your coin to drain;
These foreign quacks are whillie-whaws,
Keep your fish-guts to your sea-maws.
A Description of Notar Creesh.
To amend, not expose, is the bent of my mind,
A reproof is quite lost when ill-nature is join'd.
Spectator.
A reproof is quite lost when ill-nature is join'd.
Spectator.
The following lines, I do intend,
Shall neither church nor state offend;
But, on the contrair, hope they'll please
Each honest reader who them sees.
Shall neither church nor state offend;
But, on the contrair, hope they'll please
Each honest reader who them sees.
A sordid miser here I'll dress,
And squeeze his vice in printer's press.
To lash the vice, conceal the man,
I shall endeavour all I can:
Therefore I'll hide the real name,
Perhaps the wretch I may reclaim;
But if I don't, I in lampoon,
Will scourge his vice thro' all the town:
Yes, thro' the town, and country too,
His character I will pursue!
Ye scriblers of the better sort,
I hope you'll patronize me for't:
For slyly down the net is spread,
To catch Claudero, if he tread
A step upon forbidden ground,
Or write to common metre sound:
Therefore, with Hudibrastic measure,
I hope to shun their grand displeasure.
I never do intend a war
With pulpit, or town-council bar:
Tho' not for love, yet sure for fear,
These two wise poets will revere:
Neither of these dare to deride,
Lest you be term'd a suicide.
Therefore their awful hands I'll kiss,
Because, forsooth, they're major vis.
So, without making more ado,
The miser's vice I will pursue.
And squeeze his vice in printer's press.
To lash the vice, conceal the man,
I shall endeavour all I can:
Therefore I'll hide the real name,
Perhaps the wretch I may reclaim;
But if I don't, I in lampoon,
Will scourge his vice thro' all the town:
Yes, thro' the town, and country too,
His character I will pursue!
Ye scriblers of the better sort,
I hope you'll patronize me for't:
For slyly down the net is spread,
To catch Claudero, if he tread
A step upon forbidden ground,
Or write to common metre sound:
Therefore, with Hudibrastic measure,
I hope to shun their grand displeasure.
I never do intend a war
With pulpit, or town-council bar:
Tho' not for love, yet sure for fear,
These two wise poets will revere:
Neither of these dare to deride,
Lest you be term'd a suicide.
16
Because, forsooth, they're major vis.
So, without making more ado,
The miser's vice I will pursue.
Assist me, muse, here to describe
A miser of the notar tribe,
Who does at session time appear,
Summer and winter ev'ry year,
And thereby gathers meikle gear.
Near Bothwell-brig, where rebel Whigs
Lay scatter'd up and down the rigs,
This miser was both born and bred,
And with the herds was fed and clad:
Sour-milk, green whey, and whangs of cheese,
Did mightily this youngster please;
Milk-pottage, sowens, and butter yellow,
Did blow him up a stout big fellow.
He did attend some country schools,
'Till he could rhime Despauter's rules;
Next to the law he did apply,
And learn'd some parts of notary;
And for a notar he does pass,
Tho' some say he's a mighty ass;
Yet in the country he's rever'd
By ev'ry rustic and cock laird,
Whom he doth treat with art and skill,
And lends them cash on bond or bill:
On interest his soul is bent,
And never sleeping annual-rent.
Now I shall briefly shew you here
What ways he takes to gather gear:
A maxim in his head doth run,
That money sav'd is money won;
Maxim secundo hath this man,
To cheat his belly if he can.
The Norland clerks, of thrifty fame,
Compar'd with him are very lame;
Upon Scots pennies twice fifteen
He din'd four clerks from Aberdeen.
Four callour herring he did rost,
Which, with two baps, did two-pence cost;
The baps he halv'd among the four,
Which hunger keen made them devour;
And then, for summing up the haill,
He war'd a baubee upon kaill;
The lads did rift, and were right fain,
All four were din'd like gentlemen.
A watch this notar ne'er would wear,
And herein does his thrift appear:
Computing five pounds for a watch,
Five shillings yearly this would catch;
Repairs to ditto, half a crown,
Capital stock this would draw down;
Therefore he wisely views the sun,
As fowlers eye the murd'ring gun.
To press thro' crouds he's not the fool,
Because his clothes might lose the wool;
And for this reason home he lurches
On holidays from crouded churches.
To step a ditch he takes great care,
Lest he should wrong his breeches there.
For stony road he's much afraid,
Lest his shoes suffer by the tread:
Therefore they're made, for strength and pith,
By country sutor and by smith;
Iron their heels and soles secures:
No city shoes like them endures.
His aged hat, eleven times dress'd,
Upon his head with care is press'd;
Each time 'tis dress'd he does avow,
It looks as well as when first new.
Whene'er he drinks, 'tis with design
That he may gratis sup or dine;
Offals best please him night and day,
Because for those there's nought to pay;
His dinner once did sixpence cost,
Which with vexation did him rost;
He starv'd himself a long time after,
'Till he retriev'd this sad disaster.
He often swears by his lov'd store,
He'll marry none 'till they first whore:
By f---ng one, he says, he'll know
If formerly she us'd to m---;
A skilful plan, he says, indeed,
To get his own wife's maiden head!
But though he's search'd these twenty years
For maiden-heads, yet none appears,
And therefore he does still remain
A batch'lor, aged four times ten:
To thrifty whoring he's inclin'd,
For lust, as well as love, is blind;
Money by him is lov'd so well,
He'd hug Proserpina hersel'
To get or save the root of evil,
And make a cuckold of the devil.
One time, poor wretch, it was his hap,
'Mong other things, to catch a clap:
This was to him a great vexation,
Besides a cursed inflammation;
The sinful member did torment,
Which made him grin, curse and relent;
His testicles did likewise swell,
And shankers made him roar and yell;
Great buboes did his groins adorn,
Which pain'd him sore both night and morn;
A chordee too did him perplex,
And an erection sore him vex.
For surgeons art he did not care;
Fear'd for his p---k, but pocket mair,
He made a shift to treat himself,
And thereby sav'd his darling pelf;
Yet, after all, a gleet remains,
Which will absorb his aged veins.
He oft affects the debauchee,
Thereby to hide his misery,
And horridly will swear and curse,
But very seldom draw his purse,
However, once he got a drub
From members of the corping club,
Where Mad Tam rarely play'd his part,
Which shew'd him master of his art;
Made Notar Creesh drunk like a beast,
Then caus'd him pay dear for his feast;
Besides his well trimm'd coal-black hair
These drunken members did not spare;
Like Samson, robb'd him of his locks,
To complicate their drunken jokes;
Then sent him off in porter's creel:
And some say he deserv'd it well;
But many men of sober mood
Did think this treatment somewhat rude.
His mother dy'd, it vex'd him sore,
'Cause stocking-yarn he'd get no more;
To make up this, with thrift severe,
No mournings for her he would wear,
A borrow'd big-coat wrapt him round
'Till she was laid below the ground:
Into this town it is well known
That a big-coat he ne'er had one;
For in below the pillars glowr,
You'll never miss him in a show'r.
Th'expensive suit he has confin'd
Into his trunk, disturbs his mind;
When at these clothes he takes a view,
The sweat upon him stands like dew,
And is it not a noted knack
That they should sweat him off his back?
The breeches are of velvet scarce,
So will not keek upon his arse;
He hates the taylor as old nick,
And swears he play'd the cloth a trick:
Therefore, I advertising, tell,
These breeches now he wants to sell,
To auction them has set a day,
Whoe'er bids best bears them away.
A miser of the notar tribe,
Who does at session time appear,
Summer and winter ev'ry year,
And thereby gathers meikle gear.
Near Bothwell-brig, where rebel Whigs
Lay scatter'd up and down the rigs,
This miser was both born and bred,
And with the herds was fed and clad:
Sour-milk, green whey, and whangs of cheese,
Did mightily this youngster please;
Milk-pottage, sowens, and butter yellow,
Did blow him up a stout big fellow.
He did attend some country schools,
'Till he could rhime Despauter's rules;
Next to the law he did apply,
And learn'd some parts of notary;
And for a notar he does pass,
Tho' some say he's a mighty ass;
Yet in the country he's rever'd
By ev'ry rustic and cock laird,
Whom he doth treat with art and skill,
And lends them cash on bond or bill:
On interest his soul is bent,
And never sleeping annual-rent.
Now I shall briefly shew you here
What ways he takes to gather gear:
A maxim in his head doth run,
That money sav'd is money won;
Maxim secundo hath this man,
To cheat his belly if he can.
The Norland clerks, of thrifty fame,
Compar'd with him are very lame;
Upon Scots pennies twice fifteen
He din'd four clerks from Aberdeen.
17
Which, with two baps, did two-pence cost;
The baps he halv'd among the four,
Which hunger keen made them devour;
And then, for summing up the haill,
He war'd a baubee upon kaill;
The lads did rift, and were right fain,
All four were din'd like gentlemen.
A watch this notar ne'er would wear,
And herein does his thrift appear:
Computing five pounds for a watch,
Five shillings yearly this would catch;
Repairs to ditto, half a crown,
Capital stock this would draw down;
Therefore he wisely views the sun,
As fowlers eye the murd'ring gun.
To press thro' crouds he's not the fool,
Because his clothes might lose the wool;
And for this reason home he lurches
On holidays from crouded churches.
To step a ditch he takes great care,
Lest he should wrong his breeches there.
For stony road he's much afraid,
Lest his shoes suffer by the tread:
Therefore they're made, for strength and pith,
By country sutor and by smith;
Iron their heels and soles secures:
No city shoes like them endures.
His aged hat, eleven times dress'd,
Upon his head with care is press'd;
Each time 'tis dress'd he does avow,
It looks as well as when first new.
Whene'er he drinks, 'tis with design
That he may gratis sup or dine;
Offals best please him night and day,
Because for those there's nought to pay;
His dinner once did sixpence cost,
Which with vexation did him rost;
He starv'd himself a long time after,
'Till he retriev'd this sad disaster.
18
He'll marry none 'till they first whore:
By f---ng one, he says, he'll know
If formerly she us'd to m---;
A skilful plan, he says, indeed,
To get his own wife's maiden head!
But though he's search'd these twenty years
For maiden-heads, yet none appears,
And therefore he does still remain
A batch'lor, aged four times ten:
To thrifty whoring he's inclin'd,
For lust, as well as love, is blind;
Money by him is lov'd so well,
He'd hug Proserpina hersel'
To get or save the root of evil,
And make a cuckold of the devil.
One time, poor wretch, it was his hap,
'Mong other things, to catch a clap:
This was to him a great vexation,
Besides a cursed inflammation;
The sinful member did torment,
Which made him grin, curse and relent;
His testicles did likewise swell,
And shankers made him roar and yell;
Great buboes did his groins adorn,
Which pain'd him sore both night and morn;
A chordee too did him perplex,
And an erection sore him vex.
For surgeons art he did not care;
Fear'd for his p---k, but pocket mair,
He made a shift to treat himself,
And thereby sav'd his darling pelf;
Yet, after all, a gleet remains,
Which will absorb his aged veins.
He oft affects the debauchee,
Thereby to hide his misery,
And horridly will swear and curse,
But very seldom draw his purse,
However, once he got a drub
From members of the corping club,
19
Which shew'd him master of his art;
Made Notar Creesh drunk like a beast,
Then caus'd him pay dear for his feast;
Besides his well trimm'd coal-black hair
These drunken members did not spare;
Like Samson, robb'd him of his locks,
To complicate their drunken jokes;
Then sent him off in porter's creel:
And some say he deserv'd it well;
But many men of sober mood
Did think this treatment somewhat rude.
His mother dy'd, it vex'd him sore,
'Cause stocking-yarn he'd get no more;
To make up this, with thrift severe,
No mournings for her he would wear,
A borrow'd big-coat wrapt him round
'Till she was laid below the ground:
Into this town it is well known
That a big-coat he ne'er had one;
For in below the pillars glowr,
You'll never miss him in a show'r.
Th'expensive suit he has confin'd
Into his trunk, disturbs his mind;
When at these clothes he takes a view,
The sweat upon him stands like dew,
And is it not a noted knack
That they should sweat him off his back?
The breeches are of velvet scarce,
So will not keek upon his arse;
He hates the taylor as old nick,
And swears he play'd the cloth a trick:
Therefore, I advertising, tell,
These breeches now he wants to sell,
To auction them has set a day,
Whoe'er bids best bears them away.
No heav'n, but wealth, this wretch does know,
For riches he would dwell below:
And, with content, at Pluto's ingle,
His pleasant bags of money jingle;
But, to his torture 'twill conduce,
There his vast sums have no produce;
At which he'll grin, curse, and relent,
For loss of his sweet annual-rent;
With tortures there each miser's cramm'd,
That makes them shock the very damn'd!
Therefore, thou wretch, repent in time
Of this thy miserable crime;
Do deeds of charity, while here,
The gospel this commandeth clear;
Do not with usury oppress
Poor country lairds in their distress;
Pay more respect to words and vows,
Refund the heir of Summer-house,
That GOD himself may bless thy store,
And grant thee his eternal glore.
For riches he would dwell below:
And, with content, at Pluto's ingle,
His pleasant bags of money jingle;
20
There his vast sums have no produce;
At which he'll grin, curse, and relent,
For loss of his sweet annual-rent;
With tortures there each miser's cramm'd,
That makes them shock the very damn'd!
Therefore, thou wretch, repent in time
Of this thy miserable crime;
Do deeds of charity, while here,
The gospel this commandeth clear;
Do not with usury oppress
Poor country lairds in their distress;
Pay more respect to words and vows,
Refund the heir of Summer-house,
That GOD himself may bless thy store,
And grant thee his eternal glore.
According to the crambo wark
Of the extemporary clark,
The foresaid lines are not a bauble,
The miser meant is ------;
But, to avoid the fiscal's leesh,
The miser's name is Notar Creesh;
More might be told, sed hoc est satis;
If Creesh recant, I'll print it gratis.
Of the extemporary clark,
The foresaid lines are not a bauble,
The miser meant is ------;
But, to avoid the fiscal's leesh,
The miser's name is Notar Creesh;
More might be told, sed hoc est satis;
If Creesh recant, I'll print it gratis.
A Hymn for the Thistle Lodge.
Wrote on seeing the Copy of a certain Challenge.
Why rage the heathen, and vain thingsDoes Tam of Bedlam mind?
For surely all the Thistle Lodge
Against him are combin'd,
To plot against his mighty sway,
And to extirpate quite
Mad Tam from their society
Gives to them all delight.
21
And the two Wardens jeer,
The Lodge united join in scorn,
Which has reach'd Mad Tam's ear;
And now he swears a weighty sword
He'll take into his hand;
Heads young and Auld he will shear off;
From the mischievous band.
Now therefore be admonished,
Join trembling with your mirth;
For Mad Tam is a Bedlamite
Of fortune and of birth.
On laying the Foundation Stone of St. Bernard's Mineral Well, 15th September, 1760, lately found out near Edinburgh.
No muse I invoke to help out my song,
The muses all flutter around in a throng;
A theme so delightful with transport they view,
And with their assistance my song I pursue.
Great Drummond improveth what nature doth send,
To country and city he's always a friend?
Regardless of junto's, his lordship pursues
The weal of the public in all that he does;
Unwearied he studies the good of the town,
And success his labours for ever must crown,
Tho' opposed of late by Bedlamite Tom,
Who ne'er could do good abroad nor at home;
And likewise by others of far better fame;
What views they had in it my muse shall not name.
The muses all flutter around in a throng;
A theme so delightful with transport they view,
And with their assistance my song I pursue.
Great Drummond improveth what nature doth send,
To country and city he's always a friend?
Regardless of junto's, his lordship pursues
The weal of the public in all that he does;
Unwearied he studies the good of the town,
And success his labours for ever must crown,
Tho' opposed of late by Bedlamite Tom,
Who ne'er could do good abroad nor at home;
And likewise by others of far better fame;
What views they had in it my muse shall not name.
With pity he saw the diseas'd without aid,
(Physicians do nothing unless they are paid)
Then straight thro' three kingdoms he sent for supply,
And rear'd up the structure, call'd Infirmary,
Where ev'ry disease that physicians can cure
Is instantly heal'd, for the rich or the poor.
When heav'n, propitious to grant his desire
To th'utmost extent his heart could require,
For the health of the poor sent this sanative well
A blessing to all that around it do dwell.
(Physicians do nothing unless they are paid)
Then straight thro' three kingdoms he sent for supply,
And rear'd up the structure, call'd Infirmary,
Where ev'ry disease that physicians can cure
Is instantly heal'd, for the rich or the poor.
22
To th'utmost extent his heart could require,
For the health of the poor sent this sanative well
A blessing to all that around it do dwell.
This Water so healthful near Ed'nburgh doth rise,
Which not only Bath, but Moffat outvies.
Most diseases of nature it quickly doth cure,
Except the disease that is got from a whore.
It cleans the intestines, and appetite gives,
While morbific matter it quite away drives:
Its amazing effects cannot be deny'd,
And drugs are quite useless where it is apply'd:
So what Doctors can't cure is done by this Spring,
Reserv'd till this year of great Drummond's reign.
That as the foundation of one he did lay;
The other should likewise be put in his way,
His pious endeavours to crown in his day.
Which not only Bath, but Moffat outvies.
Most diseases of nature it quickly doth cure,
Except the disease that is got from a whore.
It cleans the intestines, and appetite gives,
While morbific matter it quite away drives:
Its amazing effects cannot be deny'd,
And drugs are quite useless where it is apply'd:
So what Doctors can't cure is done by this Spring,
Reserv'd till this year of great Drummond's reign.
That as the foundation of one he did lay;
The other should likewise be put in his way,
His pious endeavours to crown in his day.
Persevere still, Great Sir! and be not dismay'd,
Nor regard the harangues that against you are made.
Mad Tom loud may rave; he may curse, he may swear,
When with sinful Marg'ret he's quaffing his beer,
Cry out 'gainst your scheme for bringing in water,
And get posses of ale-wives to join in his clatter:
But the good of the city being your chief intent,
And on schemes for the public your mind being bent,
Despise the poor crew, go on with full speed,
And posterity surely will bless you when dead.
Nor regard the harangues that against you are made.
Mad Tom loud may rave; he may curse, he may swear,
When with sinful Marg'ret he's quaffing his beer,
Cry out 'gainst your scheme for bringing in water,
And get posses of ale-wives to join in his clatter:
But the good of the city being your chief intent,
And on schemes for the public your mind being bent,
Despise the poor crew, go on with full speed,
And posterity surely will bless you when dead.
The wonderful Adventures and heroic Atchievements of Mad Tom.
The dog-star now rages, and Bedlam's broke out,
The madmen all run thro' our streets with a shout:
'Tis full moon and full sea, full tide in their head,
They threaten the poets, and fill them with dread!
Ye muses, be cautious what song ye inspire;
But let it be something with teeth and with fire:
Claudero, quite poor --- no poorer can be,
Yet values not madmen of any degree.
The madmen all run thro' our streets with a shout:
'Tis full moon and full sea, full tide in their head,
They threaten the poets, and fill them with dread!
Ye muses, be cautious what song ye inspire;
But let it be something with teeth and with fire:
23
Yet values not madmen of any degree.
Mad Tom, the most dreadful of all the mad crew,
Has battled with drovers and butchers not few.
Thro' all the Grass Market he hath risked his skin;
Fought hostlers without doors, and stablers within.
Sore beat, and sore bruised, he's oftentimes been,
And kicked, and cuffed, and sent off with blue een:
By experience taught, he now gives the blow
(Like a traitor) behind, and knocks down the foe.
Has battled with drovers and butchers not few.
Thro' all the Grass Market he hath risked his skin;
Fought hostlers without doors, and stablers within.
Sore beat, and sore bruised, he's oftentimes been,
And kicked, and cuffed, and sent off with blue een:
By experience taught, he now gives the blow
(Like a traitor) behind, and knocks down the foe.
A captain, sore wounded, return'd from the war,
And supported by crutches, had many a scar,
Fell in with Mad Tom, --- a quarrel ensu'd,
But Tom durst not fight him; no, not for his blood.
Right slyly Tom watch'd, as he went to the door,
And snatching his crutch, threw him on the floor,
So maul'd him, and bruis'd him, he left him for dead,
Then ran, like a gentleman, home with full speed.
And supported by crutches, had many a scar,
Fell in with Mad Tom, --- a quarrel ensu'd,
But Tom durst not fight him; no, not for his blood.
Right slyly Tom watch'd, as he went to the door,
And snatching his crutch, threw him on the floor,
So maul'd him, and bruis'd him, he left him for dead,
Then ran, like a gentleman, home with full speed.
The length of my poem will not here admit
To tell more of his pranks, how many he's bit;
I shall only relate what I suffer'd myself,
Nor dread I his threats, although he has pelf.
To tell more of his pranks, how many he's bit;
I shall only relate what I suffer'd myself,
Nor dread I his threats, although he has pelf.
One time, when quite mad, he slipped his chain,
And ran from his keeper, as far as the Dean,
A sober preceptor he met on the way,
And murder'd the teacher, and thought it fine play,
His destitute children he views without pain,
Which inspireth the poet to sing in this strain.
My honest intention no critic will blame,
When the cure of a madman is all that I aim.
The Tarantula's bite our senses disarm;
But, striking the fancy with music's soft charm,
The patient will dance himself quite out of breath,
And thus he escapeth a Bedlamite's death:
If this hit Tom's fancy, then why may not I
Sing him to his senses the very same way?
And ran from his keeper, as far as the Dean,
A sober preceptor he met on the way,
And murder'd the teacher, and thought it fine play,
His destitute children he views without pain,
Which inspireth the poet to sing in this strain.
My honest intention no critic will blame,
When the cure of a madman is all that I aim.
The Tarantula's bite our senses disarm;
But, striking the fancy with music's soft charm,
The patient will dance himself quite out of breath,
And thus he escapeth a Bedlamite's death:
If this hit Tom's fancy, then why may not I
Sing him to his senses the very same way?
24
ELEGY on Jean Kirkwood, Keeper of Nimrod's Coffee-house in Cumbernauld.
You drammers all of Cumbernauld,Bewail the loss you lately had,
Jean Kirkwood's death, a mournful theme;
Her drams did often warm your wame.
Burnt up with whisky was the wife,
So went to drink the wells of life,
And left her votaries ane and a'
Without a gill to heat their maw.
Old Nimrod, now what will you do?
For friends, like Jean, you'll find but few;
Her drams you very oft did pree,
Till ye could neither hear nor see;
Her drams, I've often heard it said,
Did make your ancient heart right glad:
For t'other gill ye was ay keen,
And cry'd, My dear Melochin Jean.
Poor Sandy too, sworn to the stoup,
Perish'd with Jean is a' your hope;
Right oft with Jean ye snuff'd and dramm'd,
Till your red nose was all inflam'd,
No more will Jean the whisky fill,
No more administer the gill;
No more will she the ginger cake
After the dram unto you break.
Malcolm Mitchell, o'er-whelm'd with grief,
Fling by your fiddle and your cliff,
No more can the tun'd fiddle please,
Nor Mary's charms afford you ease
All other comforts are but vain,
'Till ye get penny gills again:
With grief oppress'd, all three did cry,
Oh! Jean, what ail'd you thus to die;
25
To spend on whisky ev'ry shilling?
Jean's ghost made answer from a shade,
With voice as shrill as a milk-maid,
And cry'd, Old Nimrod, fast prepare,
For of my fate you'll shortly share.
The whisky you sup up so fast
Will surely prove your death at last;
This much I was allow'd to tell,
So, dearest Nimrod, long farewell.
Sandy and Malcolm in amaze
Fell on their face and ceas'd to gaze:
Jean's ghost did through the æther glide,
A train of light around it wide;
With spirits pinions quickly flew,
As swift as lightning, from their view.
On Mr. Edward Jossy, Writer in Edinburgh, who died on the memorable 10th day of June, 1758.
Good Edward Jossy liv'd and dy'dAn honest man of great content,
Belov'd by all; even whigs themselves
Revere his name, his death lament.
He hated much old Cromwell's fame,
Grudg'd the Prince of Orange glory:
Attached firmly to the STUARTS,
Was a staunch and honest Tory.
He hop'd to see his King restor'd,
And honest men replac'd in state:
In Hope he liv'd, in Hope he dy'd,
And wish'd Alexis better fate.
Among the blest, his virtuous soul
Will surely dwell for evermore;
In heav'n he'll join his lawful King,
To praise the King of Kings in glore.
26
An Elegy on Archibald, Duke of Argyll, who died at London, 15th of April, 1761.
A solemn dirge, ye bag-pipes, blow,Let hills and dales resound the woe:
Ye rocks, who guard the western shore,
Your potent Duke is now no more;
Snatch'd off by Death, when ripe in years,
His mem'ry claims his country's tears:
A statesman great, and good likewise,
Among th'unthinking dead now lies.
No more he'll scheme his country's well;
No more at court our 'plaints he'll tell;
No more he'll spend the silent night:
To meditate his country's right:
No more for Scotsmen he'll provide;
Nor by sage counsel Britain guide;
His politics, now at an end,
No more his country will defend.
Let Argathelian nymphs lament,
And warlike swains his death relent.
Let all the num'rous martial clan
Loudly mourn the god-like man.
Kintire, resound the doleful tale,
And winds, blow murm'ring thro' the vale;
Let rivers, hills, and spacious plains,
Assist to echo dreary strains.
Ye muses nine, assist the theme,
And poets sing this prince's fame;
Free masons too, of Britain's north,
Record Duke Arch'bald's taste and worth:
The Gothic structure, lately spir'd,
Most justly is by all admir'd:
His palace shines in Scotia's west,
And bears of masonry the rest.
When great and good men drop and die,
Then sorrow, with a mournful eye,
In vain laments the nat'ral state,
Of patriot virtue and its date.
27
With virtue and with martial fire:
May prowess guide his heart and sword,
And laurels wreathe the Campbells lord.
On seeing a Scots Fiddler in laced Cloths.
Give Honour to whom Honour is due.
Sacred Writ.
Sacred Writ.
Ye fiddlers so foppish, who pester the town,
Your impudence shall be my song;
Such blockheads in lace cause Apollo to frown,
And the ladies to hiss you along.
Bow-hand, tune and time, perhaps, you may claim,
With sonnets from Italy rare,
While cat-gut you scrape, and talk of your fame,
Believe you're disdain'd by the fair.
The lace and embroid'ry you so much do prize,
With beaver and tassel supine,
Your fopp'ry exposes, while ladies despise
To view any fiddler so fine.
Apply to your cliff for crotchet and brief,
Not by dress on your scholars impose:
For your tassel, Macgibbon, of fiddlers the chief,
If alive, would have twisted your nose.
His merit conspicuous thro' Britain did shine,
(His collection yet speaks for itself)
No fribble was he, a true son of the Nine,
And in plain simple dress he got pelf.
Void of sense as of shame, with betters you vie,
And think the deceit to conceal;
But if aught, save your crotchets, you offer to try,
Lo! the secret you quickly reveal.
Then throw by your trappings, ye coxcombs so vain,
Be humble as fiddlers should be;
The more you're bedaub'd, the more you're disdain'd,
For still you are fiddlers we see.
28
Which is understood but by few;
Your Italian airs, so wild and perplex'd,
Are only for fribbles like you.
Give us then our own music, most justly preferr'd
To any you bring from abroad;
Or if it is longer by coxcombs deferr'd,
You all shall be banish'd by ---.
The History of a Norland Barber; being a Warning to all saucy Shavers, both in Town and Country.
From Scotia's north a puppy came,Excuse the place and puppy's name;
As authors differ ev'ry way,
His name's a secret to this day.
Quite void of science and of arts,
He wander'd to the southern parts;
T'avoid starvation in the north,
He took a boat and cross'd the Forth,
And soon in Ed'nburgh did arrive,
Where shaving trade he long did drive.
The want of learning and of sense
He soon supply'd with impudence,
And ev'ry day that he arose
Caught sev'ral hundreds by the nose.
On sooty beards his razor ran,
Till he became an expert man;
Nor do you think I tell a jest,
A carrot then he thought a feast.
Bedaub'd with flour, pometum, grease,
He'd carry wigs to whom you please.
Authors alledge too by the bye,
He told his patients many a lie;
Nor for detection was afraid,
As lies were part of barber-trade.
29
Whose wit was gleg as any razor,
Both pleas'd his master and the town,
And soon became of great renown.
His fame did reach a noble peer,
Whom long he serv'd with love and fear;
'Till suffocate with elevation,
He quite forgot his former station.
Despis'd his fellows, and disdain'd
To eat what nobles entertain'd.
Satan with pleasure view'd the youth,
Brim-full of pride, and void of truth:
Quoth Belzebub, the grand deceiver;
I'd quickly snatch this saucy shaver,
But hell already is so cramm'd,
Such multitudes of barbers damn'd,
I have of them now so great store,
I can't find blocks for any more.
Against low Dancing-Schools.
Train up a Child in the Way he should go, &c.
That dancing e'er should be a trade,
And vagrants thereby gain their bread;
Or that mere fops, by jigs and reels,
Should make estates by nimble heels;
While not one grain of wit or sense
They to their scholars can dispense;
Is matter of astonishment,
And view'd with utmost discontent:
So, reader, listen to my muse,
I mean to cure this gross abuse.
And vagrants thereby gain their bread;
Or that mere fops, by jigs and reels,
Should make estates by nimble heels;
While not one grain of wit or sense
They to their scholars can dispense;
Is matter of astonishment,
And view'd with utmost discontent:
So, reader, listen to my muse,
I mean to cure this gross abuse.
Good-breeding, early, I approve,
And that both sexes graceful move:
To drop a curt'sey, make a bow,
Is somewhat necessary too;
But let kind nature do her work,
With either Christian, Jew, or Turk,
I will be bound they far out-strip
Those who by science aukward skip.
Observe the native Highlandman,
By nature taught, how well he can,
With air genteel and breeding fine,
Beyond all school-bred dancers, shine;
His lively caper without school,
Beats all who move by art or rule;
And his address does better please,
Because it comes with grace and ease.
And that both sexes graceful move:
To drop a curt'sey, make a bow,
Is somewhat necessary too;
30
With either Christian, Jew, or Turk,
I will be bound they far out-strip
Those who by science aukward skip.
Observe the native Highlandman,
By nature taught, how well he can,
With air genteel and breeding fine,
Beyond all school-bred dancers, shine;
His lively caper without school,
Beats all who move by art or rule;
And his address does better please,
Because it comes with grace and ease.
Yet after all, if you persist
My honest counsel to resist;
I pray that youth of ev'ry station
May go to schools of reputation;
But as your childrens good you tender
(Either male or female gender)
My sentiments I do impart,
As you'd avoid a broken heart,
Beware of low professors art;
Or else your error you may see
When it cannot recover'd be.
My honest counsel to resist;
I pray that youth of ev'ry station
May go to schools of reputation;
But as your childrens good you tender
(Either male or female gender)
My sentiments I do impart,
As you'd avoid a broken heart,
Beware of low professors art;
Or else your error you may see
When it cannot recover'd be.
You here may ask the reason why
'Gainst dancing-schools I thus inveigh?
Allow me then, I'll plainly tell,
The low ones nurs'ries are for hell;
As by the following truths appear,
Which very lately happen'd here.
'Gainst dancing-schools I thus inveigh?
Allow me then, I'll plainly tell,
The low ones nurs'ries are for hell;
As by the following truths appear,
Which very lately happen'd here.
A lovely youth to virtue bred,
To Ed'nburgh sent to get a trade;
That, by industry, he might learn
In future life his bread to earn;
Fatal for him, was drawn away
(With latest breath he curs'd the day)
To one of these low dancing schools,
Amongst a pack of idle fools;
Where the professor of the art
With dress and capers charm'd his heart,
And, as the youth was proper tool,
He soon decoy'd him to his school.
Th'unthinking lad, thus made his prize,
All friendly counsel did despise;
He curs'd his master and his trade,
And day and night away was led
With company debauch'd and rude,
And danc'd with rogues and harlots lewd.
His money wasted in short space
Amongst the worthless female race.
And to support extravagance,
Dress, drink, and whore, and eke the dance,
He practis'd many a wicked trick,
And e'en at last began to pick;
'Till, in the end, it was his hap,
To catch a sad and mortal clap;
No medicine his life could save,
He lothsome dropt into his grave.
But oh! when near the gates of death,
He cry'd aloud, with parting breath,
This dancing-school had been the cause
Of his transgressing virtue's laws;
Begging both sexes to beware,
And to avoid this fatal snare.
His parents pardon he did crave,
And pray'd that God his soul might save;
Then, 'midst the tears of all around,
He dy'd a penitent profound.
Who can his parents sorrow paint,
Altho' 'tis hop'd he dy'd a saint;
Their aged hearts with grief did bleed,
They soon were number'd 'mongst the dead.
To Ed'nburgh sent to get a trade;
That, by industry, he might learn
In future life his bread to earn;
Fatal for him, was drawn away
(With latest breath he curs'd the day)
To one of these low dancing schools,
Amongst a pack of idle fools;
Where the professor of the art
With dress and capers charm'd his heart,
And, as the youth was proper tool,
He soon decoy'd him to his school.
31
All friendly counsel did despise;
He curs'd his master and his trade,
And day and night away was led
With company debauch'd and rude,
And danc'd with rogues and harlots lewd.
His money wasted in short space
Amongst the worthless female race.
And to support extravagance,
Dress, drink, and whore, and eke the dance,
He practis'd many a wicked trick,
And e'en at last began to pick;
'Till, in the end, it was his hap,
To catch a sad and mortal clap;
No medicine his life could save,
He lothsome dropt into his grave.
But oh! when near the gates of death,
He cry'd aloud, with parting breath,
This dancing-school had been the cause
Of his transgressing virtue's laws;
Begging both sexes to beware,
And to avoid this fatal snare.
His parents pardon he did crave,
And pray'd that God his soul might save;
Then, 'midst the tears of all around,
He dy'd a penitent profound.
Who can his parents sorrow paint,
Altho' 'tis hop'd he dy'd a saint;
Their aged hearts with grief did bleed,
They soon were number'd 'mongst the dead.
Say, after this, am I to blame,
Thus to expose low dancers game?
Nay, surely, you'll be of opinion,
That magistrates, who have dominion,
Should use their pow'r to rid the town,
Of dancers void of good renown;
And as we are at odds with France,
Send them to learn the warlike dance.
Thus to expose low dancers game?
Nay, surely, you'll be of opinion,
That magistrates, who have dominion,
Should use their pow'r to rid the town,
Of dancers void of good renown;
And as we are at odds with France,
Send them to learn the warlike dance.
The manly doctrine of defence,
Is well worth young mens time and pence;
Ye British youths, to that repair,
And learn the warlike science there.
Be taught with skill the sword to wield,
And ornament you for the field:
But banish dancing from our arts,
To France, and other southern parts.
Let Britain's sons be heroes all,
And ev'ry dancer be a Gaul.
Is well worth young mens time and pence;
32
And learn the warlike science there.
Be taught with skill the sword to wield,
And ornament you for the field:
But banish dancing from our arts,
To France, and other southern parts.
Let Britain's sons be heroes all,
And ev'ry dancer be a Gaul.
To the Pye-baxters.
Pye-baxters all, come hear my theme:
I sing a truth, conceal a name:
From truth my song shall never vary,
Tho' I was Taylor's secretary;
And in that post, I tell no fiction,
I wrote damn'd lies from Taylor's diction.—
Stung with remorse, I scorn'd his gold;
Refus'd my country to blindfold.
The quack, enrag'd with much vexation,
Knew well the fate of his oration,
Which he averr'd was made at Rome,
Tho' forg'd by him and me at home.
A luscious piece of scand'lous praise,
Among the mob his fame to raise.
But let the quack dissect the eye,
And blindfold all who do apply:
Let him impose on blind folks purses,
And cut their eyes, and get their curses;
Boast loud of cures perform'd abroad,
And call himself a demi-god.
Our faculty of skill'd physicians
Think him unworthy of a licence;
And by them all 'tis understood
He does more harm than he does good.
I sing a truth, conceal a name:
From truth my song shall never vary,
Tho' I was Taylor's secretary;
And in that post, I tell no fiction,
I wrote damn'd lies from Taylor's diction.—
Stung with remorse, I scorn'd his gold;
Refus'd my country to blindfold.
The quack, enrag'd with much vexation,
Knew well the fate of his oration,
Which he averr'd was made at Rome,
Tho' forg'd by him and me at home.
A luscious piece of scand'lous praise,
Among the mob his fame to raise.
But let the quack dissect the eye,
And blindfold all who do apply:
Let him impose on blind folks purses,
And cut their eyes, and get their curses;
Boast loud of cures perform'd abroad,
And call himself a demi-god.
Our faculty of skill'd physicians
Think him unworthy of a licence;
And by them all 'tis understood
He does more harm than he does good.
Here stop, my muse; a Pye comes next,
I had almost forgot my text.
King Pharaoh's baker stiff was kill'd,
For baking pyes far better fill'd:
Th'Egyptian bakers after him
Did cram their pyes from sole to brim:
Warn'd by this baker's dreadful fate,
They first got scales and weigh'd their meat;
Then Jacob's sons for many a day
Did eat good pyes, as authors say:
But in our country, far remote,
Th'example's read, but quite forgot:
Nor lectures from the pulpit can,
So well as ropes reform a man.
Our Cowgate Council paunches eat;
In them they see there is no cheat:
But fill your paste, increase the size,
They'll leave the paunches, and take pyes.
I had almost forgot my text.
33
For baking pyes far better fill'd:
Th'Egyptian bakers after him
Did cram their pyes from sole to brim:
Warn'd by this baker's dreadful fate,
They first got scales and weigh'd their meat;
Then Jacob's sons for many a day
Did eat good pyes, as authors say:
But in our country, far remote,
Th'example's read, but quite forgot:
Nor lectures from the pulpit can,
So well as ropes reform a man.
Our Cowgate Council paunches eat;
In them they see there is no cheat:
But fill your paste, increase the size,
They'll leave the paunches, and take pyes.
To the Coal-drivers, and the Retailers of Coals about Edinburgh.
Hail, kindly warmth, and joyful May;
Welcome Phœbus' genial ray:
To nipping frosts we bid adieu,
And coalmens rogueries not a few.
Now summer smiles o'er hill and dale,
And fragrance flows from ev'ry vale:
All nature, chearful, glads the heart
Of those who suffer'd winter's smart.
The busy bee at large now roves,
And sips the sweet from flow'ry groves;
'Gainst winter to preserve their lives,
By instinct taught, they store their hives:
A lesson to mankind they read,
To buy their coals before they need.
Welcome Phœbus' genial ray:
To nipping frosts we bid adieu,
And coalmens rogueries not a few.
Now summer smiles o'er hill and dale,
And fragrance flows from ev'ry vale:
All nature, chearful, glads the heart
Of those who suffer'd winter's smart.
The busy bee at large now roves,
And sips the sweet from flow'ry groves;
'Gainst winter to preserve their lives,
By instinct taught, they store their hives:
A lesson to mankind they read,
To buy their coals before they need.
'Tis coals I sing, black is the theme!
And 'twill redound to coalmens shame.
Coal-storers, listen to my muse,
And porters too, pray don't refuse
To read my lays, and then apply,
“To do as you would be done by.”
This golden rule, quite short and plain,
Gives neither mind, nor mem'ry pain:
By this, if men would square their lives,
(Nor do I here seclude their wives)
All would be well, and man would be
An emblem of divinity.
But sordid wretches, who attain
To riches by oppressive gain,
Are to their country round a curse,
And ought to hang like a cut-purse.
And 'twill redound to coalmens shame.
Coal-storers, listen to my muse,
And porters too, pray don't refuse
34
“To do as you would be done by.”
This golden rule, quite short and plain,
Gives neither mind, nor mem'ry pain:
By this, if men would square their lives,
(Nor do I here seclude their wives)
All would be well, and man would be
An emblem of divinity.
But sordid wretches, who attain
To riches by oppressive gain,
Are to their country round a curse,
And ought to hang like a cut-purse.
Coal Johnie, void of all remorse,
But differs little from his horse:
Yet skill'd in ev'ry art to cheat,
Can mag the coals with nice deceit.
His honest pownie t'other day
Did blush to bear the load away:
And, in horse language, plainly said,
His master drove a knavish trade.
But Johnie urg'd in his defence,
That winter was the time for pence;
While citizens did starve with cold,
And coals must have for any gold.
But differs little from his horse:
Yet skill'd in ev'ry art to cheat,
Can mag the coals with nice deceit.
His honest pownie t'other day
Did blush to bear the load away:
And, in horse language, plainly said,
His master drove a knavish trade.
But Johnie urg'd in his defence,
That winter was the time for pence;
While citizens did starve with cold,
And coals must have for any gold.
The honest beast did make reply,
And said, Dear John, the poor must buy
At rates exorbitantly dear,
More than their incomes well can spare,
While at the hill you pay no more
Than usual in the days of yore.
To conscience pownie did appeal:
But John, enraged at this tale,
Did lash the beast with whip in hand,
And then enjoin'd this strict command;
If ever more I hear you tell
How coals are bought, and how they sell,
O'er yonder glen I'll break your neck:
It sets you ill me to direct,
Or talk of conscience to coal John,
Within whose breast there ne'er was one.
Though dear I sold last day in town,
Yet a forestaller won a crown
Upon a cart, and porters wait
Each day for us at Bristo gate:
To cheat the city is their gain,
And yet they're called honest men.
And said, Dear John, the poor must buy
At rates exorbitantly dear,
More than their incomes well can spare,
While at the hill you pay no more
Than usual in the days of yore.
To conscience pownie did appeal:
But John, enraged at this tale,
Did lash the beast with whip in hand,
And then enjoin'd this strict command;
If ever more I hear you tell
How coals are bought, and how they sell,
O'er yonder glen I'll break your neck:
It sets you ill me to direct,
Or talk of conscience to coal John,
Within whose breast there ne'er was one.
35
Yet a forestaller won a crown
Upon a cart, and porters wait
Each day for us at Bristo gate:
To cheat the city is their gain,
And yet they're called honest men.
But magistrates,—woe worth the chance!
Of our snug trade take cognizance;
Reviews the weights o'er all the town,
And has detected many a lown,
Whose hundred weights were made of stone,
And just ones scarcely there was none.
Then spoke the horse in humble tone,
With great submission, unto John,
And said, Dear Sir, I'm always willing
To trudge the road for t'other shilling;
Nor will I ever more presume
To give advice unto my groom:
Yet after I am dead and gone,
There will be news of you, coal John.
From villany you'll never stop,
Till you are choked in a rope.
And if retailers get their due,
The knavish ones should hang with you.
Of our snug trade take cognizance;
Reviews the weights o'er all the town,
And has detected many a lown,
Whose hundred weights were made of stone,
And just ones scarcely there was none.
Then spoke the horse in humble tone,
With great submission, unto John,
And said, Dear Sir, I'm always willing
To trudge the road for t'other shilling;
Nor will I ever more presume
To give advice unto my groom:
Yet after I am dead and gone,
There will be news of you, coal John.
From villany you'll never stop,
Till you are choked in a rope.
And if retailers get their due,
The knavish ones should hang with you.
On Mr. R--- W---'s Marriage with Miss R---.
When haughty France to honour blind,
In war did undertake,
Fair Albion's sons with chains to bind,
And daughters captives make.
In war did undertake,
Fair Albion's sons with chains to bind,
And daughters captives make.
From never-conquer'd Caledon,
Where bold invaders lie,
Saxons and Danes, both sire and son,
Who dar'd their liberty.
Where bold invaders lie,
Saxons and Danes, both sire and son,
Who dar'd their liberty.
36
A youth, to arms and virtue bred,
Rush'd forth in hostile war;
Where Mars with laurels crown'd his head
In bloody fields afar.
Rush'd forth in hostile war;
Where Mars with laurels crown'd his head
In bloody fields afar.
Then wreath'd with conquest and renown,
Peace sheath'd the fatal sword,
When haughty Gauls were forc'd to own
Great George our King, their Lord.
Peace sheath'd the fatal sword,
When haughty Gauls were forc'd to own
Great George our King, their Lord.
With glory, honour, manhood join'd,
He reach'd the British shore,
And left the savage lands behind,
Where cannons wont to roar.
He reach'd the British shore,
And left the savage lands behind,
Where cannons wont to roar.
Upon the pleasant banks of Thames,
He spy'd a virgin fair,
The loveliest of the lovely dames,
A nymph without compare.
He spy'd a virgin fair,
The loveliest of the lovely dames,
A nymph without compare.
Her looks were sweet as blush of May,
The graces round her twine;
Her eyes, more bright then Phœbus' ray,
Express'd her soul divine.
The graces round her twine;
Her eyes, more bright then Phœbus' ray,
Express'd her soul divine.
The swain his flame did soon reveal,
In terms of manly truth;
Her love the nymph did not conceal,
Who could refuse the youth?
In terms of manly truth;
Her love the nymph did not conceal,
Who could refuse the youth?
Then Hymen bid, the nuptial kiss,
For heav'n their souls had join'd;
And to complete their future bliss,
The virtues all combin'd.
For heav'n their souls had join'd;
And to complete their future bliss,
The virtues all combin'd.
Hail wedded love! Hail happy pair!
May heav'n your days prolong;
From ev'ry ill defend the fair,
The youth from ev'ry wrong.
May heav'n your days prolong;
From ev'ry ill defend the fair,
The youth from ev'ry wrong.
May fixed rocks forsake their place,
The lofty mountains move,
To ebb and flow let ocean cease,
Before you cease to love.
The lofty mountains move,
To ebb and flow let ocean cease,
Before you cease to love.
37
On two Young Ladies, Sisters.
In praise of Poll and lovely Bell,
Ye Muses Nine conspire
To let me quaff Parnassus' well,
And feel poetic fire.
Ye Muses Nine conspire
To let me quaff Parnassus' well,
And feel poetic fire.
Sure, goodness, virtue, beauty, wit,
Adorns each charming maid;
Apollo then, the lyre come hit,
Ye Gods, fly to my aid.
Adorns each charming maid;
Apollo then, the lyre come hit,
Ye Gods, fly to my aid.
What theme so sweet, religion tell,
As modesty divine?
The Graces that shine forth in Bell
Thrice happy Poll, are thine.
As modesty divine?
The Graces that shine forth in Bell
Thrice happy Poll, are thine.
Their minds replete with lessons pure,
By a maternal care;
Examples too, do rivet sure,
Her precepts debonair.
By a maternal care;
Examples too, do rivet sure,
Her precepts debonair.
Their minutes sweet, industry claims,
Sloth hated flies away;
Let future annals tell their names,
When virtue's in decay.
Sloth hated flies away;
Let future annals tell their names,
When virtue's in decay.
Becoming pride, reserve polite,
Shield and protect their breast;
None but the youth with honour freight,
Can by them be caress'd.
Shield and protect their breast;
None but the youth with honour freight,
Can by them be caress'd.
Hence rude assailant, virtue's foe,
Where modesty abounds:
Ye agents of the fair sex woe,
Touch not these sacred grounds.
Where modesty abounds:
Ye agents of the fair sex woe,
Touch not these sacred grounds.
Ye beauties fair, who Britain grace,
This wholesome counsel take,
Esteem the manly chaste embrace,
Despise the sordid rake.
This wholesome counsel take,
Esteem the manly chaste embrace,
Despise the sordid rake.
38
An Excerpt from Janus. A Character.
One day, at tea, in Ed'nburgh town,With ladies sat a rev'rend clown,
And being on a merry pin,
They plucked Janus' wig behind:
One threw it into t'other's lap,
And round the table made it pap,
Janus indulg'd them in this game,
'Till he begun to feel a flame:
His carnal member stood erect,
Nor did the ladies ought suspect:
One hid the wig beneath her chair,
And Janus run to search it there;
But by mistake, I do suppose,
He thrust his hand below her cloaths;
Then cry'd aloud, The wig is there,
For, madam, I feel human hair:
The lady squeak'd like any pig,
Let go my C---, and there's your wig,
The other ladies quickly fled;
Then Janus flung her on the bed.—
Excuse me further to relate
The manner how they copulate.
A story oft I've heard of old,
That naked truths should not be told,
Nor poets modest ears affront,
With singing stories of a C---;
So stop, my muse, or suffer blame,
For giving carnal things a name;
And next relate a wicked story,
The downright truth, no allegory.—
The pregnant lass began to swell,
Which did not please his rev'rence well;
Nor could he by profoundest thinking,
Preserve his character from sinking.
Alas! said he, I'm flesh and blood,
Or sure my member ne'er had stood.
39
Who ramble till they lose their nose,
While, I who love the trade as well,
My inclinations must conceal.
O! happy he, who like a bull,
Can humour nature when he will;
While I, a poor affected saint,
Dare scarcely look at what I want;
And yet, as theirs, my inclination
Is strongly bent on copulation.
Curs'd be the day I quit the pen,
Such scandal could not hurt me then:
Then! then I often play'd at hunts-up,
And turn'd the buxom lasses C---s up.
The sin I don't at all regard,
If my Whig-Character were spar'd;
I ev'ry night could do the same,
For much I love the pleasant game.
Woes me! he cry'd, with heavy cheer,
I'll lose my licence now I fear.
But now a thought runs in my head,
That I'll blame W*r for the deed;
He is my friend and rev'rend brother,
And loves the game as well's another;
His rev'rence too must have a jot,
Above the fœtus I have got.—
The thought is great,—I shall deny
And bake up W---r in the pye;
His int'rest, with the brethren great,
May serve to slur the foul debate.
Janus was bred to the law in Edinburgh, but afterwards, to his great mortification, studied divinity, and commenced Clergy Man.
40
ALL in the WRONG.
Dire sedition did fly from Belzebub's eye.
On statesmen it first laid its paw man;
The Devil smote Pit and the Temple with it,
The infection soon overspread a' man.
On statesmen it first laid its paw man;
The Devil smote Pit and the Temple with it,
The infection soon overspread a' man.
Then grazing began, from Beersheba to Dan,
Prime ministers fast ran awa' man,
Wilkes and Churchill did scold like fish-wives of old,
And the devil laid hold of them a' man.
Prime ministers fast ran awa' man,
Wilkes and Churchill did scold like fish-wives of old,
And the devil laid hold of them a' man.
Next to Britains fair North, in a town by the Forth
Where there is baith Gospel and Law man,
The plague is broke out, and made a damn'd rout,
No doctor could cure it at a' man.
Where there is baith Gospel and Law man,
The plague is broke out, and made a damn'd rout,
No doctor could cure it at a' man.
The first thing it smote, was Wood by a vote,
Which threatened great havock to a' man;
When his laurels they fell, the imps gave a yell,
His devilship loudly did craw man.
Which threatened great havock to a' man;
When his laurels they fell, the imps gave a yell,
His devilship loudly did craw man.
Two conveeners alake! But one chain for a neck,
Such confusion did on our trades fa' man;
The men are quite good, both Lindsay and Wood,
Tho' we have no occasion for twa' man.
Such confusion did on our trades fa' man;
The men are quite good, both Lindsay and Wood,
Tho' we have no occasion for twa' man.
The Free Masons too, let same be their due,
Have more deacons than one to their fa' man;
Tho' the plumber of lead, may serve them indeed,
He'll take no bribe multure at a' man.
Have more deacons than one to their fa' man;
Tho' the plumber of lead, may serve them indeed,
He'll take no bribe multure at a' man.
He's just and sincere, belov'd ev'ry where;
Of Potty I'll say nought at a' man;
Lest I should transgress, by making him less,
Which is not my intention at a' man.
Of Potty I'll say nought at a' man;
Lest I should transgress, by making him less,
Which is not my intention at a' man.
May plenty and peace Edina increase,
And malecontents all stand in awe man;
May trade flourish here, and buildings appear,
Baith regular, useful and braw man.
And malecontents all stand in awe man;
May trade flourish here, and buildings appear,
Baith regular, useful and braw man.
41
Here's a health to my Lord, may his council accord,
And faction's base tools get a fa' man;
May works of renown, his labours still crown,
And Parsons preach peace to us a' man.
And faction's base tools get a fa' man;
May works of renown, his labours still crown,
And Parsons preach peace to us a' man.
Tho' they're humbled to dust, 'cause Drysdale the just,
Consulted them not with his Ca' man;
Yet the magistrates here, the patronage bear,
And beggars must not chuse at a' man.
Consulted them not with his Ca' man;
Yet the magistrates here, the patronage bear,
And beggars must not chuse at a' man.
Let the devil go home, for why should he roam
In a climate that's baith cauld and raw man;
He was destin'd at first, to be lastingly curst,
Not here to play at the foot ba' man.
In a climate that's baith cauld and raw man;
He was destin'd at first, to be lastingly curst,
Not here to play at the foot ba' man.
But if he won't steer, let our clergy appear,
That can raise him, and lay him an' a' man;
Their troops will surround, and drive below ground,
Old Lucifer blamed for a' man.
That can raise him, and lay him an' a' man;
Their troops will surround, and drive below ground,
Old Lucifer blamed for a' man.
Claudero's Farewell to the Muses and Auld-Reikie.
Pellucid ale us'd to inspire
The British bards with poets fire,
By taxes now reduc'd so weak,
Can hardly prompt my muse to squeak:
So Claud at last hath wisely chose
To drop his verse for humble prose:
No more he'll foibles stigmatize,
Rogue, whore, or madman satirize.
To mad Jack too he bids adieu:
His frolicks now he may pursue;
Brandish his cudgel, shake his chair;
And fill the town with dread domain:
No more Claudero will gainsay:
He safely now may act his play;
Resume his wonted course of life,
To vex his children and his wife;
From satire free, the wicked loun
May play his old game thro' the town:
Debauching, corping, beating down.
The British bards with poets fire,
By taxes now reduc'd so weak,
Can hardly prompt my muse to squeak:
So Claud at last hath wisely chose
To drop his verse for humble prose:
No more he'll foibles stigmatize,
Rogue, whore, or madman satirize.
To mad Jack too he bids adieu:
His frolicks now he may pursue;
Brandish his cudgel, shake his chair;
And fill the town with dread domain:
No more Claudero will gainsay:
He safely now may act his play;
Resume his wonted course of life,
To vex his children and his wife;
42
May play his old game thro' the town:
Debauching, corping, beating down.
To shun the fate of Pennecuik,
Who starving dy'd in turnpike-nuik,
(Tho' sweet he sung with wit and sense,
He, like poor Claud, was short of pence)
I'll change my manner with the clime,
And never more be heard to rhime.
Who starving dy'd in turnpike-nuik,
(Tho' sweet he sung with wit and sense,
He, like poor Claud, was short of pence)
I'll change my manner with the clime,
And never more be heard to rhime.
For pastime oft'ner than for pelf
I've crambo'd jokes and hurt myself,
And, for diversion to the mob,
I lodg'd six weeks with Captain Rob,
Whose usage good forbids me fear
To be his guest all round the year;
For while the stormy winds did blow,
Accompany'd with hail and snow,
I anchor'd snugly in his ark,
Where dunning creditors ne'er bark;
There pity'd men by sea and land,
Expos'd to storms and dang'rous sand,
And thought myself more happy far
Than those engag'd in German war.
But hail to Armstrong and to Hay,
Who kindness to me did display,
And did suspend the sentence odd,
For which I'm ever at their nod:
Strong may their arms for ever be,
To bind madmen, set pris'ners free:
Unto my latest breath and day,
My grateful thanks to them I'll pay.
But here these thanks I might have spar'd
For virtue hath its own reward.
I've crambo'd jokes and hurt myself,
And, for diversion to the mob,
I lodg'd six weeks with Captain Rob,
Whose usage good forbids me fear
To be his guest all round the year;
For while the stormy winds did blow,
Accompany'd with hail and snow,
I anchor'd snugly in his ark,
Where dunning creditors ne'er bark;
There pity'd men by sea and land,
Expos'd to storms and dang'rous sand,
And thought myself more happy far
Than those engag'd in German war.
But hail to Armstrong and to Hay,
Who kindness to me did display,
And did suspend the sentence odd,
For which I'm ever at their nod:
Strong may their arms for ever be,
To bind madmen, set pris'ners free:
Unto my latest breath and day,
My grateful thanks to them I'll pay.
But here these thanks I might have spar'd
For virtue hath its own reward.
Hail, glorious Justice! hail, O Judge!
May pow'r with good men always lodge,
And may madmen of each degree
Grow wiser, Tam, than thee or me.
May pow'r with good men always lodge,
And may madmen of each degree
Grow wiser, Tam, than thee or me.
No more town fool, no more, I swear,
I'll write to grate a madman's ear;
No more the laugh I will afford,
That does not clothe my back and board.
I'll write to grate a madman's ear;
43
That does not clothe my back and board.
Let puny scribblers fill my place,
But sink their rhime in deep disgrace,
With fun'ral dirge on the deceast,
Void or of grammar, verse or taste;
The Printer does not mend the matter,
Because, poor man, he knows no better,
But sends his hawkers out aloud,
Deceives the town, and swears 'tis Claud.
Let candid critics me excuse,
Distinguish well Claudero's muse,
And vindicate this gross abuse.
But sink their rhime in deep disgrace,
With fun'ral dirge on the deceast,
Void or of grammar, verse or taste;
The Printer does not mend the matter,
Because, poor man, he knows no better,
But sends his hawkers out aloud,
Deceives the town, and swears 'tis Claud.
Let candid critics me excuse,
Distinguish well Claudero's muse,
And vindicate this gross abuse.
For ever thrive, illustrious town!
And Scotia's kingdom all around,
May peace and freedom always grace,
And plenty bless the Scottish race.
Thus spoke my muse, and off she flew,
And bade Auld-Reikie long Adieu.
And Scotia's kingdom all around,
May peace and freedom always grace,
And plenty bless the Scottish race.
Thus spoke my muse, and off she flew,
And bade Auld-Reikie long Adieu.
CLAUDERO.
46
An Elegy on the Right Honourable Charles Earl of Traquair, who died the 24th of April 1764.
Ye Fates, who cut poor mortals down,
Nor spare the mitre or the crown;
Indulge me here, in strains sincere,
To mourn the death of Great Traquair.
Allow me too, with love and fear,
To drop a sympathetic tear.
His sacred life and memory
Deserves the highest Elegy:
While I attempt the pious task,
I must, at same time, pardon ask,
For soaring thus above my sphere,
Like Dedalus, into the air.
Nor spare the mitre or the crown;
Indulge me here, in strains sincere,
To mourn the death of Great Traquair.
Allow me too, with love and fear,
To drop a sympathetic tear.
His sacred life and memory
Deserves the highest Elegy:
47
I must, at same time, pardon ask,
For soaring thus above my sphere,
Like Dedalus, into the air.
Ye Nine, my numbers then attend,
And guard my verse, lest it offend:
The subject here is far too grand
For humble Muse to take in hand;
And might employ the lofty quill
Of Pope, who sung both smooth and shrill:
But, as I wish to do my best,
Let critics hush, and be at rest.
And guard my verse, lest it offend:
The subject here is far too grand
For humble Muse to take in hand;
And might employ the lofty quill
Of Pope, who sung both smooth and shrill:
But, as I wish to do my best,
Let critics hush, and be at rest.
Ye vocal hills around Traquair,
With mournful echoes pierce the air:
Let verdure now the Bush forsake,
And nymphs and swains just grief partake:
Let flow'rs and lillies hide their head,
Who flourish'd on the banks of Tweed;
And ev'ry valley loud repeat,
The doleful accents round his seat.
Let widows too and orphans mourn,
And pay a tribute at his urn.
The Benefactor of the poor,
Who cloath'd and fed them at his door.
The Good, the Great, the Meek, the Just,
Your potent Lord reverts to dust.
True piety his soul inspir'd,
And charity his bosom fir'd:
Both debonnair and sweet withal;
He never bow'd a knee to Baal;
Nor worship'd e'er the Golden Beast,
Th'abomination of his breast;
While hypocrites did kiss its paw,
And cringing at its feet did fa'.
O! ev'ry faithful martial clan,
Loud, loudly mourn the God-like man,
Whose loyal soul is now in glore,
To praise Jehovah evermore.
With mournful echoes pierce the air:
Let verdure now the Bush forsake,
And nymphs and swains just grief partake:
Let flow'rs and lillies hide their head,
Who flourish'd on the banks of Tweed;
And ev'ry valley loud repeat,
The doleful accents round his seat.
Let widows too and orphans mourn,
And pay a tribute at his urn.
The Benefactor of the poor,
Who cloath'd and fed them at his door.
The Good, the Great, the Meek, the Just,
Your potent Lord reverts to dust.
True piety his soul inspir'd,
And charity his bosom fir'd:
Both debonnair and sweet withal;
He never bow'd a knee to Baal;
Nor worship'd e'er the Golden Beast,
Th'abomination of his breast;
While hypocrites did kiss its paw,
And cringing at its feet did fa'.
O! ev'ry faithful martial clan,
Loud, loudly mourn the God-like man,
Whose loyal soul is now in glore,
To praise Jehovah evermore.
May Heav'n his successor inspire
With all the virtues of his Sire.
And, to sum up our wishes brief,
May laurels wreathe Britannia's Chief.
With all the virtues of his Sire.
48
May laurels wreathe Britannia's Chief.
On the Pollution of St. Leonard's Hill, a consecrated and ancient Burial-place near Edinburgh.
Ye tuneful Nine, in strains divine,
Employ your utmost skill,
And echoes round, loud, loud rebound,
To sing St. Leonard's Hill.
Employ your utmost skill,
And echoes round, loud, loud rebound,
To sing St. Leonard's Hill.
The portal's great, like princely state,
Rear'd by the gospel shrill,
Adorns its top and vies Lord Hope,
Upon St. Leonard's Hill.
Rear'd by the gospel shrill,
Adorns its top and vies Lord Hope,
Upon St. Leonard's Hill.
The High Priest there with art and care,
Hath purg'd with gard'ners skill,
And trench'd out bones, of Adam's sons,
Repos'd in Leonard's Hill.
Hath purg'd with gard'ners skill,
And trench'd out bones, of Adam's sons,
Repos'd in Leonard's Hill.
Th'impious deed inverts his Creed,
And Saints with horror fill,
No trumpet last, with Angel's blast,
Hath rear'd St. Leonard's Hill.
And Saints with horror fill,
No trumpet last, with Angel's blast,
Hath rear'd St. Leonard's Hill.
Graves of the dead, thrown up with spade,
Where long they slept full still,
And turnips grow, from human pow,
Upon St. Leonard's Hill.
Where long they slept full still,
And turnips grow, from human pow,
Upon St. Leonard's Hill.
The devil sure, did them allure,
And grant them hell's protection.
Or they'd been curst before they durst
Begin the resurection.
And grant them hell's protection.
Or they'd been curst before they durst
Begin the resurection.
49
An Alarm to the Meal-mongers and Corn-sellers in Scotland.
Ye mealy mouth'd mobbers, attend to my song,
Whose plunder brings plenty of blessings along.
No gospel or law starv'd people regard,
For hunger thro' stone-walls a way hath prepar'd.
Whose plunder brings plenty of blessings along.
No gospel or law starv'd people regard,
For hunger thro' stone-walls a way hath prepar'd.
The bounteous crop that late grac'd each plain,
By Forestallers, dam'nd rascals, the worst of all men,
Is seiz'd ev'ry boll, not one peck to be found,
Till their profits are rais'd to ten shillings per pound.
With luxury pamper'd the meal-mongers ride;
Their profits are huge and their consciences wide;
The cry of the orphan no pity can draw,
Nor the gulph of damnation keep villains in awe.
By Forestallers, dam'nd rascals, the worst of all men,
Is seiz'd ev'ry boll, not one peck to be found,
Till their profits are rais'd to ten shillings per pound.
With luxury pamper'd the meal-mongers ride;
Their profits are huge and their consciences wide;
The cry of the orphan no pity can draw,
Nor the gulph of damnation keep villains in awe.
To starve a whole kingdom in midst of great store,
Is what they now do, and have oft done before;
With specious pretences they cover their fraud,
To famish a country make poets run mad;
Heav'n thus long provok'd, will vengeance pour down,
Upon (shall I name them) the rogues of our town;
For with-holding its blessings on mankind to flow,
And abusing the plenty which God did bestow.
Is what they now do, and have oft done before;
With specious pretences they cover their fraud,
To famish a country make poets run mad;
Heav'n thus long provok'd, will vengeance pour down,
Upon (shall I name them) the rogues of our town;
For with-holding its blessings on mankind to flow,
And abusing the plenty which God did bestow.
Ye tradesmen enraged, who ventur'd your lives,
For meat to your children and your loving wives;
Restrain now your passion, let good laws take place,
For mobbing, tho' useful, is but a disgrace.
For meat to your children and your loving wives;
Restrain now your passion, let good laws take place,
For mobbing, tho' useful, is but a disgrace.
O cheaters, take warning by John Muat's fate!
Hear the whispers of conscience before 'tis too late.
For wealth gain'd by wickedness, vengeance, will bring;
Your gold will be useless, when your neck's in a string.
Nor would I insure you, for all your fine dust,
For if you persist in a trade that's unjust,
The needy will curse you, your Maker will frown,
Your mem'ry will stink, and your soul it will drown.
Hear the whispers of conscience before 'tis too late.
For wealth gain'd by wickedness, vengeance, will bring;
Your gold will be useless, when your neck's in a string.
Nor would I insure you, for all your fine dust,
For if you persist in a trade that's unjust,
The needy will curse you, your Maker will frown,
Your mem'ry will stink, and your soul it will drown.
At Leith, too, thou villain, repent and give o'er,
Consider what crime 'tis the poor to devour;
The grand royal sage, who rul'd in the east,
Says with-holders of corn will be damned at least.
Medina the painter for a firlot of meal,
Will lend thee his bible, this truth to reveal;
Or if he refuse thee, Claudero himsel'
Will lend thee his scripture to save thee from hell.
This wholesome advice I beg you'll attend,
For better late thrive than never to mend:
Thy country, injur'd by rascals like thee,
Will make dire example on many curs'd tree,
To the terror of other ingrossers of corn,
Who buy up the victual before it is shorn.
Your factors and clerks, with riches and pride,
Abroad in their coaches are able to ride,
While thousands of children are meagre and pale,
Whose parents are ruin'd by the dearth of your meal.
Consider what crime 'tis the poor to devour;
50
Says with-holders of corn will be damned at least.
Medina the painter for a firlot of meal,
Will lend thee his bible, this truth to reveal;
Or if he refuse thee, Claudero himsel'
Will lend thee his scripture to save thee from hell.
This wholesome advice I beg you'll attend,
For better late thrive than never to mend:
Thy country, injur'd by rascals like thee,
Will make dire example on many curs'd tree,
To the terror of other ingrossers of corn,
Who buy up the victual before it is shorn.
Your factors and clerks, with riches and pride,
Abroad in their coaches are able to ride,
While thousands of children are meagre and pale,
Whose parents are ruin'd by the dearth of your meal.
Ye monsters of mankind, what 'vaileth your store,
When the practice of virtue you leave and give o'er?
Believe ye the gospel, or 'postolic creed?
The devil gets villains, as soon as they're dead:
And as for your lives, they will not be long,
So therefore I pray you give ear to my song,
Be honest, hear conscience if any you have,
Or this dire inscription shall stand on your grave.
When the practice of virtue you leave and give o'er?
Believe ye the gospel, or 'postolic creed?
The devil gets villains, as soon as they're dead:
And as for your lives, they will not be long,
So therefore I pray you give ear to my song,
Be honest, hear conscience if any you have,
Or this dire inscription shall stand on your grave.
EPITAPH.
Old Gripus lies beneath this sod,Hated by men and damn'd by G---d.
Bad meal and dear he always sold,
And went to hell for love of gold.
The needy's curse he often got,
Which sent him to Belzebub's pot,
Amongst the devils now he's cramm'd,
And like a villain doubly damn'd.
51
A Caution against Mobbing.
Ye Poets, be cautious what muse ye invoke,
Be careful too, Printers, and do not provoke
The guardians of justice, or laws of our land;
When you oppose either, 'gainst reason you stand.
To justify tumults, no man should pretend,
Else farewel to order, peace then's at an end:
The Scriptures divine, our good wholesome acts,
And rules that are social, forbid such attacks:
Tho' engrossing forestallers by these are condemn'd,
Let the legislature the oppressed defend.
'Tis the magistrate's duty these harpies to stop,
By ending their crimes, with their lives, in a rope.
These wicked loch-leeches, both here and elsewhere,
Should to justice be brought, all good people declare;
For why should they feed on the blood of the poor,
And starve a whole kingdom, the orphan devour?
Be careful too, Printers, and do not provoke
The guardians of justice, or laws of our land;
When you oppose either, 'gainst reason you stand.
To justify tumults, no man should pretend,
Else farewel to order, peace then's at an end:
The Scriptures divine, our good wholesome acts,
And rules that are social, forbid such attacks:
Tho' engrossing forestallers by these are condemn'd,
Let the legislature the oppressed defend.
'Tis the magistrate's duty these harpies to stop,
By ending their crimes, with their lives, in a rope.
These wicked loch-leeches, both here and elsewhere,
Should to justice be brought, all good people declare;
For why should they feed on the blood of the poor,
And starve a whole kingdom, the orphan devour?
O Royal Grand Sovereign, we beseech thee to hear,
The cry of thy subjects let come to thine ear:
Let no high connection such vermin defend,
But justice' sharp sword their malpractices end,
A proof by ten thousand, their guilt shall attest,
O grant us this proof, and thy people are blest:
By necessity urged, we are forced to cry,
To our king, as our father, to grant us supply;
For our Printers are seized, their labours are burnt,
And Poets dare scarcely resent the affront.
The cry of thy subjects let come to thine ear:
Let no high connection such vermin defend,
But justice' sharp sword their malpractices end,
A proof by ten thousand, their guilt shall attest,
O grant us this proof, and thy people are blest:
By necessity urged, we are forced to cry,
To our king, as our father, to grant us supply;
For our Printers are seized, their labours are burnt,
And Poets dare scarcely resent the affront.
No mob I encourage, nor rioters join,
Nor do I 'gainst law and the rulers combine;
I pity John Muat, who fell without blame,
Who suffer'd for others that he can well name:
I condole the fair traders, who were willing to sell
At a moderate price, when the mob on them fell,
And rifling their houses, did pillage their store,
And ruin'd whole fam'lies, whose case I deplore:
Then where is the justice the press to knock down?
Or why should the poet here suffer a frown?
Nor do I 'gainst law and the rulers combine;
I pity John Muat, who fell without blame,
Who suffer'd for others that he can well name:
I condole the fair traders, who were willing to sell
At a moderate price, when the mob on them fell,
And rifling their houses, did pillage their store,
And ruin'd whole fam'lies, whose case I deplore:
Then where is the justice the press to knock down?
Or why should the poet here suffer a frown?
52
Fair liberty, sure, will hear us complain,
Against those oppressors, who add to our pain,
And law on engrossers must surely take hold,
Which wou'd put an end to all mobbing, I'm told.
Then seize on the guilty, convict them in haste,
Till then, peace or plenty we never will taste;
For judges themselves, if starved to rage,
Would fight for their victuals, and swear it was sage.
I refer to my country both parts of my song,
I will humbly submit, if my judgment is wrong;
But if I am right, I freedom will plead,
For sighing the strains of poor people in need.
And to show all engrossers that I am a hero,
I'll boldly affix here the name of
Against those oppressors, who add to our pain,
And law on engrossers must surely take hold,
Which wou'd put an end to all mobbing, I'm told.
Then seize on the guilty, convict them in haste,
Till then, peace or plenty we never will taste;
For judges themselves, if starved to rage,
Would fight for their victuals, and swear it was sage.
I refer to my country both parts of my song,
I will humbly submit, if my judgment is wrong;
But if I am right, I freedom will plead,
For sighing the strains of poor people in need.
And to show all engrossers that I am a hero,
I'll boldly affix here the name of
Claudero.
P. S. Among the number of scurrilities in the North
Britons, there are also to be found a few very unlucky
facts; and too true it is, that the freedom of this country,
compared with that of its sister kingdom, will vanish
into arbitrary petty tyranny. Would an Englishman
believe, that it was practicable for two engrossers
to seize upon a Printer, and escort him under a strong
military guard, from Leith to the city of Edinburgh,
and then to have his papers burnt, merely because they
spoke to the same purpose as does the word of God,
and our acts of parliament, against engrossers and forestallers?
No!—Would he believe that a Scotsman
may be starved to death, with money in his pocket;
yea, many thousands of them; yet dare not for the
souls of them complain upon those who retain all the
victual in the country, till they have an exorbitant
price, more than the labours of the people can afford!
No.—For God's love, let not these, and many other
scandalous abuses of freedom, transpire to the
ears of Mr. Wilkes, or we must certainly be ashamed of
the contempt, justly poured upon us for our pusillanimity.
61
On the bloody Massacre of the Dogs in Edinburgh; wrote for the Consolation of their sorrowful Owners, Summer 1763.
Old
Homer blind, in lofty strains,
Sung Ilium and its scarlet plains;
Yet did not travel to our land
To picturesque the bloody band;
Nor shall I soar to Rome or Greece,
For images to deck my piece;
But where the tragedy was wrought,
From thence my matter shall be brought.
Sung Ilium and its scarlet plains;
Yet did not travel to our land
To picturesque the bloody band;
Nor shall I soar to Rome or Greece,
For images to deck my piece;
But where the tragedy was wrought,
From thence my matter shall be brought.
To magistrates, my grateful song
Shall never attribute a wrong;
Their wholesome edict, pass'd of late,
My muse approves, good for the state,
And dire examples plainly show,
What mischief may from mad dogs flow.
But oh! that horrid barb'rous gang,
Who're fit to murder, stab or hang:
Give them command, they'll cut our throats,
Altho' they cost us many groats.
With cruel sport, for greed of gain,
How many sober dogs they've slain,
Who thoughtless ventur'd on the street,
And did their savage butchers meet;
Who, primo loco, gave the blows,
The curs, when slain, they did cognosce;
Contrair to law or social act,
They perpetrate the murd'ring fact;
So folks at Jedburgh us'd of old
To hang men first, then judge them cold.
Shall never attribute a wrong;
Their wholesome edict, pass'd of late,
My muse approves, good for the state,
And dire examples plainly show,
What mischief may from mad dogs flow.
But oh! that horrid barb'rous gang,
Who're fit to murder, stab or hang:
Give them command, they'll cut our throats,
Altho' they cost us many groats.
With cruel sport, for greed of gain,
How many sober dogs they've slain,
Who thoughtless ventur'd on the street,
And did their savage butchers meet;
Who, primo loco, gave the blows,
The curs, when slain, they did cognosce;
Contrair to law or social act,
They perpetrate the murd'ring fact;
So folks at Jedburgh us'd of old
To hang men first, then judge them cold.
Some chairmen too here lent a hand,
And join'd for pelf the bloody band;
But better could not be expected,
As they're to brutes so near connected;
And heav'n has form'd these Christian horse,
For purpose good, void of remorse.
To murder cats and dogs unruly,
Who sweat not in the month of July;
And who's so fit for slaughter's task,
As those who never mercy ask?
Who ne'er to heav'n preferr'd their pray'r,
Or wants or wishes to be there.
Rapacious, greedy, fierce, and wild,
They're merciless ev'n to a child;
Quite destitute of human grace,
Like Greenland bears, fit for the chace.
And join'd for pelf the bloody band;
But better could not be expected,
As they're to brutes so near connected;
62
For purpose good, void of remorse.
To murder cats and dogs unruly,
Who sweat not in the month of July;
And who's so fit for slaughter's task,
As those who never mercy ask?
Who ne'er to heav'n preferr'd their pray'r,
Or wants or wishes to be there.
Rapacious, greedy, fierce, and wild,
They're merciless ev'n to a child;
Quite destitute of human grace,
Like Greenland bears, fit for the chace.
Who'll now guard Crispin's
awls and thread,
Since his three jolly dogs are dead?
Like lions fierce they stood without,
Protectors of his whoring bout:
His love for them did far surpass,
The love he bore to Yarrow's lass;
Yet nothing could the poor tykes save,
And now their skins the tanners have.
Some Crispin, of a harder heart,
May work them up with skill and art;
But for his part, he'll ne'er more stitch,
The skin of water-dog or bitch.
Since his three jolly dogs are dead?
Like lions fierce they stood without,
Protectors of his whoring bout:
His love for them did far surpass,
The love he bore to Yarrow's lass;
Yet nothing could the poor tykes save,
And now their skins the tanners have.
Some Crispin, of a harder heart,
May work them up with skill and art;
But for his part, he'll ne'er more stitch,
The skin of water-dog or bitch.
We wish the canine generation
May never give us more vexation;
For, ever faithful to their masters,
They stand our friends in all disasters:
Tho' father, mother, sister, brother,
Should all forsake, your dog will never.
Let pity fill the human breast,
And dogs from persecution rest,
Is what we wish and what we want,
And thus I end my canine cant.
May never give us more vexation;
For, ever faithful to their masters,
They stand our friends in all disasters:
Tho' father, mother, sister, brother,
Should all forsake, your dog will never.
Let pity fill the human breast,
And dogs from persecution rest,
Is what we wish and what we want,
And thus I end my canine cant.
65
Claudero to Mr. George Boick.
Great thanks to Boick's friendly lays,For bards like Claud are fond of praise;
But thou has screw'd my muse so high,
Like Dedalus, in air to fly,
She dreads his fate, and must implore,
Beneath fam'd Allan's wings to soar.
Your compliment, by far too great,
Sits aukward on my crazy pate;
Of Helicon thou art partaker,
Poor Claud, at best, a crambo-maker;
While Boick claims Apollo's rays,
Mine are the cabbage, his the bays:
I do beseech thee in thy grace,
To show me thine and Lawder's face,
In Wattie Kerr's, at the White Bear,
Where Claud presides in elbow chair,
On Tuesday nineteenth of November,
There I to Boick will surrender
My pen, my friendship, and my seat:
And dub thee, as Scots Allan, great!
I pray accept my invitation,
And I am thine in any station.
In Brodie's too, I'll meet my hero,
Where you shall quaff with friend Claudero;
And if the cash can well afford,
We'll chearful be as laird or lord.
66
On St. Crispin's day, October 25th, 1763.
Come let us prepare,
Jolly hearts ev'ry where,
Each shoemaker sing and be merry,
Let mirth now abound,
And bumpers go round,
Of Claret, Champaign, and Canary.
Jolly hearts ev'ry where,
Each shoemaker sing and be merry,
Let mirth now abound,
And bumpers go round,
Of Claret, Champaign, and Canary.
Blythe is our chose King,
Then blythly come sing,
Let faction be drove from our quarter,
May virtue inspire,
Is all we desire,
We envy no Knight of the Garter.
Then blythly come sing,
Let faction be drove from our quarter,
May virtue inspire,
Is all we desire,
We envy no Knight of the Garter.
Our Royal Patron,
He wore the apron,
And was an extreme honest fellow,
Our craft is more great,
Without all debate,
Than many who more loudly bellow.
He wore the apron,
And was an extreme honest fellow,
Our craft is more great,
Without all debate,
Than many who more loudly bellow.
We still bear in mind,
And show to mankind,
Our loyalty by a procession,
To Crispin the great,
Who left kingly state,
And liv'd in a shoemaker's station.
And show to mankind,
Our loyalty by a procession,
To Crispin the great,
Who left kingly state,
And liv'd in a shoemaker's station.
Tyrannical vice,
In Royal disguise,
Did banish this Prince and his brother,
We received them fair,
We taught them with care,
And thus we became one another.
In Royal disguise,
Did banish this Prince and his brother,
We received them fair,
We taught them with care,
And thus we became one another.
67
The kingdom we aid,
By shoemakers trade,
Of ladies we oft take the measure,
And Queens must submit,
To shew us their foot;
Yea Empresses do it with pleasure.
By shoemakers trade,
Of ladies we oft take the measure,
And Queens must submit,
To shew us their foot;
Yea Empresses do it with pleasure.
The King on the throne,
The Prince too his son,
Without our Craft's friendly assistance,
They bare-foot might go,
Thro' frost and thro' snow,
If shoemakers were at a distance.
The Prince too his son,
Without our Craft's friendly assistance,
They bare-foot might go,
Thro' frost and thro' snow,
If shoemakers were at a distance.
Old Adam himsel',
Soon after he fell,
Did drive up his last into leather,
And made the first shoes,
To Eve his dear spouse;
Tho' clumsily tacked together.
Soon after he fell,
Did drive up his last into leather,
And made the first shoes,
To Eve his dear spouse;
Tho' clumsily tacked together.
Be that as it will,
'Tis certain our skill,
Could not very long be a wanting;
For boots, brogs, or shoes,
Were early in use,
Which saved mens feet when a-planting.
'Tis certain our skill,
Could not very long be a wanting;
For boots, brogs, or shoes,
Were early in use,
Which saved mens feet when a-planting.
While misers are vex'd,
With riches perplex'd,
We whistle at work without sorrow;
We value no gain,
Which brings with it pain,
Nor trouble our tune with to-morrow.
With riches perplex'd,
We whistle at work without sorrow;
We value no gain,
Which brings with it pain,
Nor trouble our tune with to-morrow.
Our very great care,
Is to pleasure the fair,
Whom shoemakers fit always neatly,
Our sweet-hearts and wives,
We love as our lives,
And by them are loved compleatly.
Is to pleasure the fair,
Whom shoemakers fit always neatly,
Our sweet-hearts and wives,
We love as our lives,
And by them are loved compleatly.
68
To sum up the whole,
Let us Crispin extol,
And be of his virtues partakers;
Then all will applaud,
And sing loud as Claud,
The fame and great worth of shoemakers.
Let us Crispin extol,
And be of his virtues partakers;
Then all will applaud,
And sing loud as Claud,
The fame and great worth of shoemakers.
80
EPILOGUE.
[As 'tis the custom of play-actors]
As 'tis the custom of play-actors,To thank their friends and benefactors,
In epilogues compos'd in verse,
Which they, like apes, do but rehearse:
So 'tis a preacher's duty more,
To wish his hearers grace and glore.
I too, return my thanks sincere,
To ev'ry individual here;
May Modesty, that princely grace,
Embellish ev'ry human face:
And may a modest lady fair,
Propitious fall to each man's share,
To be the comfort of his life,
A loving mother, and a wife.
81
ELEGY on James Robb, Captain of the Tolbooth of Edinburgh.
Garlick and onions, aid my woe,
Ye crocodiles, your tears let flow,
And Stirling-castle's large head now,
Pour forth its streams, as rivers do;
For CAPTAIN ROBB is now no more
A goaler, on this mortal shore.
Ye crocodiles, your tears let flow,
And Stirling-castle's large head now,
Pour forth its streams, as rivers do;
For CAPTAIN ROBB is now no more
A goaler, on this mortal shore.
How pale now lies his lovely nose,
Which wont to shine like scarlet rose;
That nose, which always pity smelt,
And soft as butter then would melt;
Now, like its kindred whisky, blue,
No more assumes carnation hue.
Which wont to shine like scarlet rose;
That nose, which always pity smelt,
And soft as butter then would melt;
Now, like its kindred whisky, blue,
No more assumes carnation hue.
Let Stirling-castle loud rebound
The minute-guns, the mortal sound:
The mourning flag aloft display,
To aid the sorrow of the day.
The minute-guns, the mortal sound:
The mourning flag aloft display,
To aid the sorrow of the day.
Ye offspring of the royal Dane,
Assisting join the dreary train.
To Wilsons ay a lasting friend,
From his commencement to his end;
On you he pour'd his favours down,
And brought forth blessings on our town;
But now he's gone, without relief,
To lodge with ev'ry goaler's chief.
Assisting join the dreary train.
To Wilsons ay a lasting friend,
From his commencement to his end;
On you he pour'd his favours down,
And brought forth blessings on our town;
But now he's gone, without relief,
To lodge with ev'ry goaler's chief.
The baps he had from honest baker,
Were full of conscience, as their maker:
His ale it bore a wat'ry bell,
For brewers stole it from the well,
And chas'd it thro' the draffy malt,
Lest gaugers should espy the fault;
His whisky, of a limpid hue,
Somewhat inclining to a blue,
He sold as cheap as Clearihue.
And let me die, as I'm a sinner,
He had himself as good a dinner,
As ever any man was able,
To place upon a provost's table.
And if his pris'ners did not eat,
I'm sure they could not blame the meat.
And for room-rent, as Penny said,
The de'il a farthing e'er they paid,
Until his tenants were to flit,
And then he shook his nose for it.
Were full of conscience, as their maker:
His ale it bore a wat'ry bell,
For brewers stole it from the well,
82
Lest gaugers should espy the fault;
His whisky, of a limpid hue,
Somewhat inclining to a blue,
He sold as cheap as Clearihue.
And let me die, as I'm a sinner,
He had himself as good a dinner,
As ever any man was able,
To place upon a provost's table.
And if his pris'ners did not eat,
I'm sure they could not blame the meat.
And for room-rent, as Penny said,
The de'il a farthing e'er they paid,
Until his tenants were to flit,
And then he shook his nose for it.
No captain ever bore command,
On war-ship-board, or on dry-land,
More absolute than this our hero,
Is here attested by Claudero.
On war-ship-board, or on dry-land,
More absolute than this our hero,
Is here attested by Claudero.
A large headed writer from the town of Stirling, who prosecuted Captain Robb, for acts of oppression, exercised in his Tolbooth. The most meritorious action of that petty-fogger's whole life.
He was Chancellor of Andrew Wilson's Jury, and gave the casting-vote to send him to Elysium, which was the occasion of the unhappy affair of Captain Porteous, that gave Edinburgh, and all Scotland, much trouble; and was a stumbling-block to many of our clergy.
CLAUDERO to Mr. William Peter, Taylor.
Good Mr. Stitch, if 'tis your pleasure,To come and take of me the measure:
I will confess the obligation,
And cringe unto a taylor's station.
Let any one say what they can,
I'll swear a taylor's more than man.
I can no more go decent out,
My coat is such an arrant clout.
And am now such a naked lown,
That I out-do the fam'd Tom Brown.
Fly to my aid,—your art come shew it.
Mount, like a prince, a naked poet.
83
Shall not be paid with scrapes of metre;
But I'll reward your gen'rous toil,
With what will make your pot to boil.
Tho' Satan should piss in the fire,
Cash will conjure him to retire.
To the Good Town of Edinburgh, A Poem.
On the Restoration of Peace and Tranquillity.
Edinburgh, October 20th, 1767.
Discord, fly on sooty pinions,
To your gloomy dire dominions;
For LAURIE, now our potent Lord,
Engageth all to sweet concord.
Let palms of honour wreathe his brow;
Laurels to him are justly due:
His mild command and splendid ray,
Dispels our clouds, and clears our day.
The muse, herself, beneath his wing,
Feels all the ardour of the spring:
In strains sincere she swells each note,
While echo bursts from ev'ry throat.
The graces wait upon his train,
All hail the sweets of his domain:
Refulgent beams, of divine birth,
Descend from heav'n to bless our earth.
But who shall represent, with grace,
Edina in the senate place,
And fill that elevated station,
With all a patriot's reputation?
Replies the Good-man of the city,
“I think it would be much a pity,
“That we should favour the petition
“Of any man of mere ambition:
“I hope we ne'er shall be so shameless,
“To act like towns that shall be nameless:
84
“To 'scape the censure of these days,
“To scorn the low intriguing spirit,
“And give our voice unask'd to merit.
“Birth, fortune, parts, at once conspire,
“To form the patriot we desire;
“Nor need conjecture wander far hence,
“Edina cries—My son Sir LAURENCE.”
But stop, O muse! cease to digress,
Come, sing the Good Town's happiness.
Arches superb, from hill to hill,
Rise by the hands of Deacon Mill:
Our royal Charles into this station,
Receives a second restoration,
While corporations, of the town,
Lay all their strifes and jarring down.
To join the silver Frith of Forth,
New Ed'nburgh rises on the north,
And structures grand start all around;
Which LAURIE's praises loud resound.
Let London brick-walls hide their head,
Nor e'er compare with north the Tweed;
Where buildings may invite a court,
As formerly, now to resort.
May grand canals join Forth and Clyde,
May trade resort and here reside;
May Scotia's REIKIE always flourish,
And LAURIE long her children nourish,
May better bards, his works applaud,
It will give pleasure unto CLAUD.
85
An ADDRESS, to the Right Honourable, the Lord Provost, Magistrates, Town-Council and Citizens of Edinburgh; upon the election of Sir Laurence Dundas, 27th March, 1768.
Whilst
London town, resounds her Wilkes's name,
Scorching allegiance, with her patriot flame,
Whilst Oxford, still for blackest arts renown'd,
Maintains her fame, and bravely keeps her ground;
Whilst Jedburgh town, a standing mark appears,
Of wholesome justice, as in former years;
Whilst Norland lowns of ever venal name,
Consign their native walls to endless shame;
Whilst great mens tools, in legal frays collide,
With English knavery fraught, and Scottish pride;
Let us, my happy friends (for well we may)
Congratulate ourselves, and hail the day.
Scorching allegiance, with her patriot flame,
Whilst Oxford, still for blackest arts renown'd,
Maintains her fame, and bravely keeps her ground;
Whilst Jedburgh town, a standing mark appears,
Of wholesome justice, as in former years;
Whilst Norland lowns of ever venal name,
Consign their native walls to endless shame;
Whilst great mens tools, in legal frays collide,
With English knavery fraught, and Scottish pride;
Let us, my happy friends (for well we may)
Congratulate ourselves, and hail the day.
No sneaking bribes, our honest hands have ting'd,
No private views our liberties infring'd;
Nor learned in distinctions have we known,
Our country's weal to differ from our own:
Merit alone can our esteem engage!
And venal tricks excite our patriot rage.
Long may such sentiments inflame our souls,
(Whils't neither knave nor fool, their force controuls)
May sacred liberty be still rever'd,
And decent worth continually preferr'd;
May gratitude, to Laurie and Dundas,
Erect a trophy, durable as brass.
No private views our liberties infring'd;
Nor learned in distinctions have we known,
Our country's weal to differ from our own:
Merit alone can our esteem engage!
And venal tricks excite our patriot rage.
Long may such sentiments inflame our souls,
(Whils't neither knave nor fool, their force controuls)
May sacred liberty be still rever'd,
And decent worth continually preferr'd;
May gratitude, to Laurie and Dundas,
Erect a trophy, durable as brass.
86
The CLINCHIAD.
See CLINCHIE to the hen approach,
A scoundrel screen'd in gilded coach.
A scoundrel screen'd in gilded coach.
Near to Edina's lofty town,
Upon a worthy Baron's ground,
A poor old woman pray'd to Jove,
That he might, from his wonted love,
Give her a hen, she'd give him praise,
And thank his Godship all her days.
Jove heard the pray'r unto Amen,
Then granted a most charming hen;
Upon her dung-hill dropt the fowl,
Which pleas'd and cheer'd the widow's soul.
Upon a worthy Baron's ground,
A poor old woman pray'd to Jove,
That he might, from his wonted love,
Give her a hen, she'd give him praise,
And thank his Godship all her days.
Jove heard the pray'r unto Amen,
Then granted a most charming hen;
Upon her dung-hill dropt the fowl,
Which pleas'd and cheer'd the widow's soul.
Just by her hovel liv'd a Lord,
With ev'ry grace and virtue stor'd:
He fed the poor, the orphan blest;
This widow too, among the rest,
Receiv'd a sixpence ev'ry day,
As duly as her hen did lay.
The bard must glory here to clerk it,
And heav'n with pleasure view such market,
Our matron liv'd by this same hen,
As well as some folks by their pen;
Till CLINCHIE, scourge of human race,
Replete with wealth and damn'd disgrace,
Did on a day, by fate unlucky,
Cast his curs'd eyes on keckling chuckie.
With ev'ry grace and virtue stor'd:
He fed the poor, the orphan blest;
This widow too, among the rest,
Receiv'd a sixpence ev'ry day,
As duly as her hen did lay.
The bard must glory here to clerk it,
And heav'n with pleasure view such market,
Our matron liv'd by this same hen,
As well as some folks by their pen;
Till CLINCHIE, scourge of human race,
Replete with wealth and damn'd disgrace,
Did on a day, by fate unlucky,
Cast his curs'd eyes on keckling chuckie.
He try'd to purchase, but in vain,
She would by no means sell her hen;
From whence, said she, shall come my dinner.
If you take chuckie, my bread-winner,
She would by no means sell her hen;
87
If you take chuckie, my bread-winner,
But CLINCHIE, as the devil greedy,
Regardless of the poor and needy,
Resolv'd to steal the widow's hen,
Tho' hell should be his portion then:
The dirty rogue, with purpose vile,
Contriv'd to catch her by a wile;
With hook and line he baited chuckie,
And basely stole her off from luckie.
In his gilt car away he rode,
Triumphant home to his abode,
Where he bereav'd the hen of life;
Despising Jove, and the poor wife.
Regardless of the poor and needy,
Resolv'd to steal the widow's hen,
Tho' hell should be his portion then:
The dirty rogue, with purpose vile,
Contriv'd to catch her by a wile;
With hook and line he baited chuckie,
And basely stole her off from luckie.
In his gilt car away he rode,
Triumphant home to his abode,
Where he bereav'd the hen of life;
Despising Jove, and the poor wife.
Proposed to have been continued on the following plan.
In second Canto, truth comes out,
The wife with Clinchie has a bout;
She slaps his face with strangled hen,
And calls him thief, and worst of men:
Next to her Lord and Benefactor
She represents the wicked actor,
Who graciously attempts redress,
By sentence of the court of Sess.
The wife with Clinchie has a bout;
She slaps his face with strangled hen,
And calls him thief, and worst of men:
Next to her Lord and Benefactor
She represents the wicked actor,
Who graciously attempts redress,
By sentence of the court of Sess.
In Canto third are many stories,
To entertain both whigs and tories;
Atchievements of infamous CLINCHIE,
Who daily plays the game of Pinchie.
You'll likewise in this Canto read
How CLINCHIE cheapens a sheep-head;
And sev'ral other puny wares,
Which may be call'd low life up stairs.
To entertain both whigs and tories;
Atchievements of infamous CLINCHIE,
Who daily plays the game of Pinchie.
You'll likewise in this Canto read
How CLINCHIE cheapens a sheep-head;
And sev'ral other puny wares,
Which may be call'd low life up stairs.
Our Canto fourth contains amours,
His partnerships with bawds and whores.
His partnerships with bawds and whores.
88
The BOOK-BINDER's GHOST; Or, the Second Part of the Clinchiad, A Dreadful Tale.
'Twas at the dark, and midnight hour,When mankind take repose,
That Braidwood enter'd Clinchie's bower
And stood before his nose.
With fiery eyes the spectre star'd
Upon the guilty man,
And with a speech, long, long prepar'd,
It fiercely thus began.
“From gloomy shades, my bloody corse
“Permitted waits on thee,
“To strike thy soul with dire remorse,
“For basely murd'ring me.
“What! tho' I check'd thy vile amour,
“In yonder bawdy cell;
“Why did'st thou bribe that son of whore,
“Now chimney-sweep of hell,
“To dash my brains with sooty pole,
“Upon Edina's street;
“And send my unprepared soul,
“Prostrate to Satan's feet?
“Thy curs'd revenge and whoredoms great,
“Shall soon avenged be,
“And hell shall ope' its dreadful gate
“To welcome thee to me.
“Thy av'rice, theft and dirty tricks,
“Shall now meet their reward;
“And Charon waft thee o'er the Styx,
“To the infernal guard.
“The widow's hen, by heav'n design'd,
“To bring thy crimes in glib,
“And point thee out to all mankind;
“A Magor Missabib
“Should on thy coach fair painted be,
“That ev'ry one may shun
89
“And from a rascal run.
“Thy kindred far from having blame,
“Might shine in honour's page:
“'Tis only CLINCHIE's manners lame
“Which swells the spectre's rage.
“Yet impudence sits on thy brow,
“Thou scorn'st to be asham'd;
“While ev'ry tongue swears all is true
“For which thou art defam'd.
“Assassination, dreadful thought!
“Must shock each human breast.
“The villain who can thus be bought,
“Must forfeit all that's blest.
“But now the dawning draweth nigh,
“The cock begins to crow,
“We phantoms, who on furlow fly,
“Must then descend below.”
An Epistle to Dr. Greenlaw.
The buxom ladies of Parnassus,
Are quite unlike our modern lasses,
Who are a race of sordid b---s,
That prostitute their charms to riches:
Are quite unlike our modern lasses,
Who are a race of sordid b---s,
That prostitute their charms to riches:
Not so the gen'rous tuneful nine,
Who to a humble poet deign,
Their inspiration and their aid,
As well by day as night in bed;
From lame Claudero back to Homer,
They with the bards have dealt in honour;
Disdaining none, however poor,
Who whistled them unto their lure.
Who to a humble poet deign,
Their inspiration and their aid,
As well by day as night in bed;
From lame Claudero back to Homer,
They with the bards have dealt in honour;
Disdaining none, however poor,
Who whistled them unto their lure.
90
All hail! ye gentle ladies meek,
Who measure lines as poets speak,
Assist me now with queint excuse,
From going to a tipling house:
Tell Greenlaw, he's an old divine,
With empty pockets like to mine,
And that to fuddle without money,
Tastes more of aloes than the honey;
Prose beggars too, like those in verse,
May chance to get a kicked a---e.
If this sad fact does not prevail
To wean him from the gin and ale,
Next tell him, Claud is very busy,
And wedded to a wicked hussy,
Whose yelping brats absorb his store,
While the damn'd shrew still craves for more,
And that the plagues of human life
All centre in a cursed wife.
Who measure lines as poets speak,
Assist me now with queint excuse,
From going to a tipling house:
Tell Greenlaw, he's an old divine,
With empty pockets like to mine,
And that to fuddle without money,
Tastes more of aloes than the honey;
Prose beggars too, like those in verse,
May chance to get a kicked a---e.
If this sad fact does not prevail
To wean him from the gin and ale,
Next tell him, Claud is very busy,
And wedded to a wicked hussy,
Whose yelping brats absorb his store,
While the damn'd shrew still craves for more,
And that the plagues of human life
All centre in a cursed wife.
If such excuses will not do,
Then lastly tell what's surely true,
Claud has no money.—There's the gust,
Nor knows an ale-wife that will trust.
Then lastly tell what's surely true,
Claud has no money.—There's the gust,
Nor knows an ale-wife that will trust.
An Epistle to a young Gentleman, dissuading him from entering into Holy Orders.
Inspir'd with friendship, fly, O muse!
To greet my Genius, a recluse!
Opprest, o'erwhelm'd with sullen grief—
Haste—now, or never, give relief.—
To greet my Genius, a recluse!
Opprest, o'erwhelm'd with sullen grief—
Haste—now, or never, give relief.—
Say, could a mitre or a gown,
Uncloud thy brow, unlock thy frown?
I wish thee these.—What would'st thou more?
Is gold thy thirst? I wish thee store.—
If heav'n grant these unto thy mind,
Would'st thou be still my friend, and kind?
My jealous fears suggest the worst,
And then I wish preferments curst.—
Be ever still within my reach,
For foxes have been said to preach,
I'd rather see thee with a sword,
Than with a bible serve the Lord;
Or poring o'er the Scottish code
To serve the lieges and thy God,
Than in a pulpit holderforth,
To whining creatures void of worth;
Besides, perhaps, it is not civil,
On Sundays to abuse the devil;
Who, notwithstanding, keeps the field,
And he'll be damn'd before he yield.
Uncloud thy brow, unlock thy frown?
I wish thee these.—What would'st thou more?
Is gold thy thirst? I wish thee store.—
If heav'n grant these unto thy mind,
Would'st thou be still my friend, and kind?
My jealous fears suggest the worst,
And then I wish preferments curst.—
91
For foxes have been said to preach,
I'd rather see thee with a sword,
Than with a bible serve the Lord;
Or poring o'er the Scottish code
To serve the lieges and thy God,
Than in a pulpit holderforth,
To whining creatures void of worth;
Besides, perhaps, it is not civil,
On Sundays to abuse the devil;
Who, notwithstanding, keeps the field,
And he'll be damn'd before he yield.
To the same.
Quick saddle your mare, to Auld Reikie repair,
For my muse is confoundedly dull;
But your pious face will inspire me with grace,
And enliven my insipid skull,
My brave boy, &c.
For my muse is confoundedly dull;
But your pious face will inspire me with grace,
And enliven my insipid skull,
My brave boy, &c.
Besides dear M---d, your
cause will be dead,
Old Greenlaw too, drown'd in despair;
Nor longer can Claud your conduct applaud;
So haste away, mount on your mare,
My brave boy, &c.
Old Greenlaw too, drown'd in despair;
Nor longer can Claud your conduct applaud;
So haste away, mount on your mare,
My brave boy, &c.
The oister in season will bring you to reason,
With other fine cates of our town;
Strong beer too and wine, will inspire the divine,
And dispel from your noddle the frown,
My brave boy, &c.
With other fine cates of our town;
Strong beer too and wine, will inspire the divine,
And dispel from your noddle the frown,
My brave boy, &c.
A snap at a whore, your ailments may cure,
And substitute claps in their place;
For clergy are wont to dip in the font,
And preach up the doctrine of grace,
My brave boy, &c.
And substitute claps in their place;
For clergy are wont to dip in the font,
And preach up the doctrine of grace,
My brave boy, &c.
92
The Cock-Sparrow and Goose, A Fable.
A goose there was in Glasgow town,
For beauty fam'd, a buxom lown,
Near which a sparrow had his hole,
A lech'rous bird, upon my soul.
For beauty fam'd, a buxom lown,
Near which a sparrow had his hole,
A lech'rous bird, upon my soul.
He knew the goose was often tread
By ganders large, tho' she was wed,
And that her lust was of such sort,
She'd welcome ev'ry bird of sport.
This fierce cock-sparrow left his nest,
To tread the goose among the rest.
He hung his wings around her tail,
On which the goose did low her sail.
He bill'd about, ador'd her charms;
And then she gaggled forth her terms.
By ganders large, tho' she was wed,
And that her lust was of such sort,
She'd welcome ev'ry bird of sport.
This fierce cock-sparrow left his nest,
To tread the goose among the rest.
He hung his wings around her tail,
On which the goose did low her sail.
He bill'd about, ador'd her charms;
And then she gaggled forth her terms.
“Go rob thy nest, my little cock,
“And bring to me thy feather'd stock;
“Then in my egg-bed thou mayst stray,
“And drench in lust both night and day.
“Thy parts, unequal form'd for mine
“As a snuff-box to brewers nine;
“Or as a trout in a mill-dam
“I altogether in will cram;
“Then lustily I'll shake my tail
“'Till all thy sparrow-spirits fail.”
The cock agreed, then rais'd his crest,
And fillip'd round the gander's nest,
He perch'd into her lusty hole,
To see him top the goose was droll.
Like weather cock above a church,
Or a small bell o'er a large porch;
Sure such a sight was never seen.
May God preserve our king and queen.
“And bring to me thy feather'd stock;
“Then in my egg-bed thou mayst stray,
“And drench in lust both night and day.
“Thy parts, unequal form'd for mine
“As a snuff-box to brewers nine;
“Or as a trout in a mill-dam
“I altogether in will cram;
“Then lustily I'll shake my tail
“'Till all thy sparrow-spirits fail.”
The cock agreed, then rais'd his crest,
And fillip'd round the gander's nest,
He perch'd into her lusty hole,
To see him top the goose was droll.
Like weather cock above a church,
Or a small bell o'er a large porch;
Sure such a sight was never seen.
May God preserve our king and queen.
The MORAL.
The dwarf and giant, black and white,Base whores admit for perquisite.
93
FINGAL's Lament, on account of his whole Houshold-furniture being poinded by a cruel Brewer.
To friends attent, my sad lament,
I with dool and sorrow roar;
These naked walls for pity call,
And grieve my heart full sore.
I with dool and sorrow roar;
These naked walls for pity call,
And grieve my heart full sore.
My children too, stand in my view,
For help they look on me;
My wife, the plague too of my life,
Comforted cannot be.
For help they look on me;
My wife, the plague too of my life,
Comforted cannot be.
For madness keen, I've blister'd been,
They laud'num pour'd in me;
Nor was I spar'd the city-guard,
And bedlam threat'ned me.
They laud'num pour'd in me;
Nor was I spar'd the city-guard,
And bedlam threat'ned me.
I'm a Highlandman from a martial clan,
And bred to the claymore;
In foreign land with heart in hand,
I've seen my en'mies gore.
And bred to the claymore;
In foreign land with heart in hand,
I've seen my en'mies gore.
May ev'ry curse with an empty purse,
O Cairnton, light on thee:
May the Devil teaze and quickly seize
Thyself as thou didst me.
O Cairnton, light on thee:
May the Devil teaze and quickly seize
Thyself as thou didst me.
May gaugers poind, for their excise,
Thy copper and mash-tun,
And may they come, to thy surprise,
To do as thou hast done.
Thy copper and mash-tun,
And may they come, to thy surprise,
To do as thou hast done.
May the arrow broad, the curse of God,
Which 'stablish'd first excise,
Upon thy door be fixed sure,
There to remain always.
Which 'stablish'd first excise,
Upon thy door be fixed sure,
There to remain always.
94
And if for debt, thy final fate,
Thou shalt be e'er opprest;
May thou such aid have full repaid,
Like Fingal be redrest.
Thou shalt be e'er opprest;
May thou such aid have full repaid,
Like Fingal be redrest.
A Card, in Answer to one who reprimanded Claudero, for not praying vociferously, like a female neighbour of his.
Tho' my neighbour, with mighty noise,
On bended knees lifts up her voice,
That all around may hear her well,
Mistake devotion for a yell;
Yet the best of men in ages all,
With privacy on God did call,
Not regarding mens opinion,
The sole design of every minion.
On bended knees lifts up her voice,
That all around may hear her well,
Mistake devotion for a yell;
Yet the best of men in ages all,
With privacy on God did call,
Not regarding mens opinion,
The sole design of every minion.
May all men pray, as God commands,
With holy heart, and upright hands,
Our actions all ought pray'rs to be,
God damns and hates hypocrisy.
With holy heart, and upright hands,
Our actions all ought pray'rs to be,
God damns and hates hypocrisy.
The HEN-PECKT CARTER.
Come here, brother Carters, adhere to my plan,
Sling your whips on your shoulders, and sing my Joan;
She's handsome and witty, the flow'r of our land,
To cross her were pity my charming Joan.
Sling your whips on your shoulders, and sing my Joan;
She's handsome and witty, the flow'r of our land,
To cross her were pity my charming Joan.
I yield her the breeches, am no longer man,
This favour too small for the sake of Joan;
I scour her the kail-pot and the parridge-pan,
And I tickle the fancy of charming Joan.
This favour too small for the sake of Joan;
I scour her the kail-pot and the parridge-pan,
And I tickle the fancy of charming Joan.
95
The bargains I make too shall no longer stand,
If they're disapprov'd by my charming Joan;
Each hair of her fud is the length of a span,
What fud can compare with the fud of Joan?
If they're disapprov'd by my charming Joan;
Each hair of her fud is the length of a span,
What fud can compare with the fud of Joan?
May my loaded cart sink deep in the sand,
If e'er I forsake the charmer Joan;
To pleasure her always I'll do what I can,
At evening and morning I'll humour Joan.
If e'er I forsake the charmer Joan;
To pleasure her always I'll do what I can,
At evening and morning I'll humour Joan.
Nor shall any hussy my passion trepan,
For I am devoted to lovely Joan;
Then farewell, ye carters, my life's but a span,
And I'll spend it all in caressing Joan.
For I am devoted to lovely Joan;
Then farewell, ye carters, my life's but a span,
And I'll spend it all in caressing Joan.
Ye critics, forbear my verses to scan,
The numbers unequal that chime my Joan;
For love warms the fancy and leads on the van,
When the carter attempts the praise of Joan.
The numbers unequal that chime my Joan;
For love warms the fancy and leads on the van,
When the carter attempts the praise of Joan.
(A Technical Song.)
O had you well frae Geordie Bell,
Ye go and ago;
There's few folks dafter than himsel',
Irum corum dago.
As thro' Edina's streets he walks,
Right technically Geordie talks.
The arteries he can well trace,
And ilka muscle o' the face.
The nerves and bones et cetera,
The motion of the blood an' a';
The structure of the penis too,
And the vagina thro' and thro'.
Let Geordie view a calcin'd bone,
He calls it caput mortuum.
His principles are somewhat odd,
For he's a Christian antipode.
“To hear him of his travels talk,
“To gang to London's, but a walk;
“To see the wonders of the deep
“Wou'd make a man baith wail and weep;
“To see the leviathan skip
“And wi' her tail ding o'er a ship.
Upon the gang-way Geordie stood,
Contemplating the briny flood;
To freshen't was not in his pow'r,
To stay in London too was sour.
Then homewards Geordie bent his way,
And told his travels many a day;
The inversion of his guts was great,
His intestines in a bad state.
The peristaltic motion too,
Of Geordie's guts did make him spue.
Mindereri spirit did him good,
By sweating the morbisic blood.
Now Geordie's sound as any trout
And has his cow ty'd in a clout.
Ye go and ago;
There's few folks dafter than himsel',
Irum corum dago.
As thro' Edina's streets he walks,
Right technically Geordie talks.
The arteries he can well trace,
And ilka muscle o' the face.
The nerves and bones et cetera,
The motion of the blood an' a';
The structure of the penis too,
And the vagina thro' and thro'.
Let Geordie view a calcin'd bone,
He calls it caput mortuum.
His principles are somewhat odd,
For he's a Christian antipode.
96
“To gang to London's, but a walk;
“To see the wonders of the deep
“Wou'd make a man baith wail and weep;
“To see the leviathan skip
“And wi' her tail ding o'er a ship.
Upon the gang-way Geordie stood,
Contemplating the briny flood;
To freshen't was not in his pow'r,
To stay in London too was sour.
Then homewards Geordie bent his way,
And told his travels many a day;
The inversion of his guts was great,
His intestines in a bad state.
The peristaltic motion too,
Of Geordie's guts did make him spue.
Mindereri spirit did him good,
By sweating the morbisic blood.
Now Geordie's sound as any trout
And has his cow ty'd in a clout.
By inspection of an auld wife's burn
He prognosticate a large fluck worm;
He gave pulvis stanni mix'd with curd,
Which made her pass it in a t---d.
It was forty yards in length he swore,
But Geordie wont to lie before.
Geordie Bell fond on the game,
Did stitch until his awl fell lame:
His member weeps now night and day,
And mourns that e'er he went astray.
He prognosticate a large fluck worm;
He gave pulvis stanni mix'd with curd,
Which made her pass it in a t---d.
It was forty yards in length he swore,
But Geordie wont to lie before.
Geordie Bell fond on the game,
Did stitch until his awl fell lame:
His member weeps now night and day,
And mourns that e'er he went astray.
But now my sonnet here shall end,
For fools like Geordie seldom mend.
O saw ye e'er the Potter-row
Ye go and ago;
Where Geordie flang his last awa',
Irum corum dago.
For fools like Geordie seldom mend.
O saw ye e'er the Potter-row
Ye go and ago;
Where Geordie flang his last awa',
Irum corum dago.
Geordie pretended, that he had by a chemical process discovered the method of freshening sea water in abundance, which, had he succeeded in, he would have deserved a statue.
FINIS.
| Miscellanies in prose and verse | |