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The Seven Champions Of The stage

In imitation of Gill Morice. An excellent new old fashion'd Song All to the melancholy Tune of Gill Morice; except the 17th. 18th. and 19th. Stanzas which ought to be Sung to the merry Tune of the C---s are coming O ho! [by John Home]

Home, John (1722-1808)

[section]

[dedication]

GILL MORICE, AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH POEM.

In Imitation of Gill Moris.

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In Imitation of Gill Moris.

[1]

Our reverend bard's a clerkes son;
His name has waxed wide;
It was nae for his mickle grace.
But for his mickle pride;
And for twa tragedies right gay,
For whilk he far did ride.

2

Where will I get an actor gude,
That will win mony a crown,
And gar my play ay famous be,
As clapp'd in London Town?
And ye maun act my play Garrick;
And ye maun act wi' pride.
When other Parsons gae on foot
In my ain coach I'll ride.

3

O no! oh no! my Parson dear!
How can ye bid me this?
Your Agis were it acted here,
Baith great and sma' waed hiss.
My bird Garrick, my gude Garrick,
My dear Garrick he said,
How can ye strive against the stream?
My Agis s'all be play'd.

4

But O my Parson dear! (he cry'd,)
Your lain ye'll be expos'd;
Gi' o'er sic thoughts I waud ye red;
For fear ye be depos'd,
Haste, haste, (I say,) gae to the stage,
And act my play wi' speed.
If ye refuse my heart's desire,
I rather lourd be dead.

5

I winna gae your black errand;
It waud be to thy cost;
By me if ye will nae be warn'd
Ye s'all in it find frost:
Your kirk was ay a kirk o' might;
She ne'er cou'd bide to taunt;
As ye will see if on ye gae
How sma' ye hae to vaunt.

6

Syne clean red wod away he ran,
To Shakespear made his mene,
Sen my first-born is sae despis'd,
May I be turn'd to stane!
He bent his knee and lightly lap,
Up on his fav'rite steed;
And vex'd this prov'd a gowk's errand
Gart baith his sides sair bleed.

7

The mettled steed then lap fu' heigh
And flang him off his back;
Tho' light his head, this dolefu' fa',
His colar bain did crack,

Oh!—only ha'f my pray'r was heard,
A living man I grane;
And tho' I'm faun down to the yird,
But ha'flens am I slane.

8

When he came trailing to his manse
He sent for C---r---le dear,
And C---ples too, that they wi' him,
Might shed a kindly tear;
And when they saw his dreary plight,
And heard his waefu' tale,
Their een grew red wi' water saut,
Their faces lang and pale.

9

Oft have we by thy table sitten
And fondly seen thee write,
Thy Agis for whose shamefu' death,
We now saut tears maun greet.
Then up and spak C---r---le in rage,
The fire flew frae his ee,
He's ta'en the table wi' his foot,
Sae has he wi' his knee,

10

The China bowl and glasses clear,
In flinders spread the floor;
Help me my brethren baith to curse
Yon proud son of a whore.

My Johnny break nae thus your heart
But cast despair away;
Sen Agis maun in silence sleep,
Gae write another play.

11

Then C---ple's said wi' winking ee
That may be done e'er lang;
And for your plot, I waud ye redd
Tak' my auld mamie's sang:
A bonny tale it is and sad
Of a dear bastard bairn;
And how to hide a slip o' foot,
Frae it fo'k well may learn.

12

Fair fa' ye Ge---dy dear! quoth I---n,
Your counsel slee I'll take;
But marry'd maun Gill's mother be
For decency's sweet sake.
I'll gar her say she wedded was,
To a son o' my brain,
And keep her lady Barnard still;
Syne safe your point we'll gain.

13

Sae soon's this pauky play was written,
And Morice Douglas nam'd,
These, three for joy aloud did shout,
Douglas can ne'er be damn'd.
The Bard put on his braw brown suit,
In whilk he aft had preach'd;
Again he left his flock and rede,
Till he had London reach'd.

14

And when he came to Garrick's door,
He shook sae sair wi' pride,
The porter guess'd he was a Bard,
Had gaen his wits beside.
He wad nae wait to tell his name,
But strutted stately ben;
Hail! Hail! my gentle Garrick, Hail!
Your Parson comes agen;

15

And here it is, a braw new play,
The best that e'er was wrote;
My ain head's wark, a but saft bits
By my friend---ot.
When Garrick had a' Douglas read,
He glowr'd wi' baith his een,
And stamping wi' his foot, he cry'd,
Sic dam'd stuff ne'er was seen.

16

Sic solemn lang prayers on the stage,
Waud gar a Christian grue,
Mix'd wi' sic oaths, and dev'lish rants
As troopers never knew;
Your Wylie Heroine's auld disgrace,
Thro' the thin vail is seen;
And for the killing twa poor rogues,
Nane hero e'er has been.

17

Then up and spake a wylie man
Right proud o' might was he,
If this be come frae a Scots priest,
It's dear welcome to me.
I set a Quixote on a seat
And there I keep him still;
And this damn'd Play s'all acted be,
At Enbrugh when I will.

18

Chear up young Parson; wi' this line
Down to my agent gae,
A greater thrang than e'er was seen,
He'll gar greet at your play.
The Parson bent his back and thanks
Gave to the noble ****;
And wi' light purse, but lighter heart,
His hameward journey took.

19

Hark! C---r---le, C---ples, a' my friends;
Braw news I now can tell;
**** my Douglas will protect;
Let Garrick gae to Hell.
You C---r---le, write an Epilogue;
A Prologue fine will I;
We'll bauldly to the play-house gae;
And a' our kirk defy.

20

Our friends warde us to bide at hame,
And nae offence to gi';
But a' that they can say or do,
Forbidden we winna be.
I' the gude green room he first saw Ward,
Plaiting her nut-brown hair;
O save my darling! and I'll ay
Remember you in pray'r

21

Far better I loo that bony face,
But and that nut-broun hair,
Than a' my brethren in the land,
As they preach here and there.
And syne he kiss'd her rosie cheek,
And syn her cherry lip
I'm o' my Douglas just as fow
As o' the stane the hip.

22

I got him in my mother's house,
Wi' mickle sin and shame;
Baith him and Agis Garrick damn'd
And if Ward join to blame,
To me nae after day nor night.
Will e'er prove saft or kind;
I'll fill the air wi' heavy sighs,
And greet till I am blind.

23

I never had a priest till now,

There can be no inpropriety in supposing that the Bard presented his supplications in that posture so familiar to Stage players, and to the imaginations of dramatic poets.

Here kneeling at my feet;
'T, were pity o' my tender heart
Sic a sweet youth s'ou'd greet.
With waefu' wae I hear your plaint,
Sair, sair I curse the dead,
That ever Garrick's cruel scorn,
Sae lang your heart gard bleed.

24

There's nae help for poor Agis now,
He's bury'd been sae lang;
Nor can we lay his angry ghaist,
That schreehs in mony a sang.
But for the bonny bastard lad,
Be in nae fear nor pain:
For him I will do mickle mair,
Than for ane o' my ain.

FINIS.

This part of the imitation is not carry'd too high for a Poets imagination; and 'tis hop'd no critic will call this a castle bas'd on air.

“Like a fair castle on a hill of sand,” See Agis.

The fervent devout prayer he made at that Poets tomb for petrification, when enrag'd at his disappointment, is reckon'd by the best critics the most excellent of all his productions.

“I am a man; a living breathing man.” See Agis.

See the incomparable Essay of the Laws of Motion, by the hon. H---y H---e Esq. which would naturally occur to the thoughts of his learned friend after such a prayer, followed by such a fall.

This part of the imitation needs no other apology than it's being supported by that Rev'd brother's heroical behaviour in the play-house, and his having been often in the politest company at R---ts, &c. where he cou'd not fail to learn many phrases, never us'd by his aukward old-fashion'd brethren.

The only reason for supposing, that Gill Morice was recommended by this Rev'd brother, is, that he has always been admir'd by all his companions, for having an inexhaustible fund of wit and humour of that kind.

Brown for a Minister is almost a disguise like womens clothes for a lay man.

It must here be observed that this Tragedy was corrected between the time of Mr. Garrick's seeing it, and its being acted the first night at Edinburgh; and more corrected the second day; and very much altered after it had been seven times acted; tho' it had been celebrated, by the poet or one of his intimate friends, in the news papers, as the most perfect work of genius produced in any age.

As the imitator did not see this play acted more than once, and was at a too great distance from the stage to hear every word, erhaps the hero kill'd but one.

The humour of imitation is grown so strong that the very cream of the Tragedy cannot escape it.—

As looks our Bard, so look his six brave brothers
Array'd in nature's pride, their mein, their speech,
Are frankly foolish; and can ne'er deceive
Those fools who think priests shou'd seem always wise;
And Morice matching their most mighty minds,
Up rose these Heroes; on their warlike eyes,
Sat bold defiance; on their hostile march
Keen arrows followed; as the thunder-bolt
Pursues the flash. ------

It was impossible to forbear imitating the most affecting lines in the old Ballad; and there can be no indecorum in supposing a few chaste endearments between the anxious young Poet, and the handsome actress, on whom his future fame and wealth intirely depended.

The changing father's house into mother's house is purely metaphorical; and signifies only his conceiving and bringing forth his two illegitimate plays, while a minister in his mother Church