 | [Scotch Nationality]: A vision |  |
i
[SCOTCH NATIONALITY.]
A VISION.
7
BOOK I.
I've bought of Wordsworth,—not thoughts deep
As truth i' th' bottom of a well,
Nor wings of power to soar, and sweep
O'er summits, inaccessible
Without such aid;—but, for a penny,
I've bought a hero, one worth many.
A genuine pedlar. What he said,
Or dream'd, shall in Three Books be penn'd?
For your true Epic must, I've read,
Have a beginning, middle, end:
So said the Scotchman, Aristotle,
So prov'd his pupil, Amos Cottle.
In modern, as in ancient, days,
What have not mortals done for praise?
Thou, who to th' everlasting skies
Link'st ashes, by an empty name,
With Time, and two Eternities!
Shadow of dust! immortal Fame!
Thou only deathless where all die!
Priz'd nothing! sole reality!
Pride, that unbow'd can pass the shrine
Of Glory's god, yet bends at thine;
And well may man love trifles here,
If e'en their shadow thus is dear!
But who, alas! will dribble forth
My praises from the grateful North?
Small praise need he expect, in sooth,
Who praises Sawney with the truth.
But while I laud the booing nation,
I have this common consolation,
That when I shall be lowly laid,
And turn'd to dust, which casts no shade,
The ‘loftiest’ Scot, that lives a slave,
Would boo, for sixpence, o'er my grave.
As truth i' th' bottom of a well,
Nor wings of power to soar, and sweep
O'er summits, inaccessible
Without such aid;—but, for a penny,
I've bought a hero, one worth many.
A genuine pedlar. What he said,
Or dream'd, shall in Three Books be penn'd?
For your true Epic must, I've read,
Have a beginning, middle, end:
So said the Scotchman, Aristotle,
So prov'd his pupil, Amos Cottle.
In modern, as in ancient, days,
What have not mortals done for praise?
Thou, who to th' everlasting skies
Link'st ashes, by an empty name,
With Time, and two Eternities!
Shadow of dust! immortal Fame!
Thou only deathless where all die!
Priz'd nothing! sole reality!
8
Of Glory's god, yet bends at thine;
And well may man love trifles here,
If e'en their shadow thus is dear!
But who, alas! will dribble forth
My praises from the grateful North?
Small praise need he expect, in sooth,
Who praises Sawney with the truth.
But while I laud the booing nation,
I have this common consolation,
That when I shall be lowly laid,
And turn'd to dust, which casts no shade,
The ‘loftiest’ Scot, that lives a slave,
Would boo, for sixpence, o'er my grave.
In eighteen-hundred twenty-two,
Mac Whisky hight, a Sawney true,
Half choak'd with dust, and sick of clamour,
Left Sheffield and the sleepless hammer.
E'en profit's ‘sel’ had vainly tried
To tempt him longer there to 'bide.
The smoke, in two nights and a day,
Had smutch'd his raw red hide to grey;
And, like a whale, he blew and cough'd,
And rubb'd his reeky optics oft,
And shook his lugs, as shakes a cur,
When sous'd i' th' dyke, his hide and fur.
Yet, smiling, on his way he went,
And seemed in ‘heart and soul content’;
For he had, in a clout with care,
Tied up a slice o' th' Sheffield air,
(In shape not oval, somewhat round,
In weight exactly half a pound,)
Which, on his travels, well he knew,
Might gain him cash, and honour too;
Provided it were not mistaken
For half a pound of Sheffield bacon.
Leaving old Hallam's hell below,
He climbed the hills four miles or so.
And then—But, ere we tell the story,
We will, like other heirs of glory,
To make our Epic a complete one,
Invoke our Muse; and she's a sweet one.
Mac Whisky hight, a Sawney true,
Half choak'd with dust, and sick of clamour,
Left Sheffield and the sleepless hammer.
E'en profit's ‘sel’ had vainly tried
To tempt him longer there to 'bide.
The smoke, in two nights and a day,
Had smutch'd his raw red hide to grey;
And, like a whale, he blew and cough'd,
And rubb'd his reeky optics oft,
And shook his lugs, as shakes a cur,
When sous'd i' th' dyke, his hide and fur.
Yet, smiling, on his way he went,
And seemed in ‘heart and soul content’;
9
Tied up a slice o' th' Sheffield air,
(In shape not oval, somewhat round,
In weight exactly half a pound,)
Which, on his travels, well he knew,
Might gain him cash, and honour too;
Provided it were not mistaken
For half a pound of Sheffield bacon.
Leaving old Hallam's hell below,
He climbed the hills four miles or so.
And then—But, ere we tell the story,
We will, like other heirs of glory,
To make our Epic a complete one,
Invoke our Muse; and she's a sweet one.
Edina!—Athens!—classic home
Of dog-mouthed seers, who sell their foam!
Cockayne of Thule! wilt thou lend
Thy ink and goosequill to a friend,
Who, tho' no Scot, alike reveres
Scots, and Athenians, that have ears?
Alike to me, wherever flock they,—
Scotch Greek, Scotch Yankey, or Scotch Cockney;
I rival Butler's ‘lofty line,’
Deathless to make a son of thine,
Who, speaking truth with modesty,
Was doomed to hell's black pillory;
And, had not foot imperial kick'd him,
Would have become, alas! the victim
Of true Scotch meekness, and Scotch care;
But, rescu'd by the king of men,
Still lives, to boo and blush again,
And show his slice of Sheffield air.
To all who wish that sight to see,
At two peeps for the half bawbee.
Fain would I honour my high theme,
Scotch worth recording to all time,
And in sweet pickle steep a dream,
As crowdie, or Scotch praise sublime,
Immortal as thy fragrance pure,
Which, long endur'd, may still endure.
But the rich poets, at their own
Cost, furnish thoughts and words alone,
Not pen and ink; and for a bard
To purchase, without cash, is hard,
And, without credit, harder still.
Oh! haste, then, with thy ink and quill,
Or Scotland's ‘sel’ may rue this day,
And, unrecorded, fidge for aye!
But, land of sweets! poor Sawney's home,
Which still he scents, where'er he roam!
No Southron chiel, that kens thee well,
Can e'er forget thy ancient smell,
Nor I, a stranger, may refuse
To make thy memory my Muse.
Hail, fragrant Muse! thou'rt strang as whisky;
So, to our tale return we, frisky,
And if we can't get ink and pen,
By Jove, we'll chalk, like cross-legg'd men.
Of dog-mouthed seers, who sell their foam!
Cockayne of Thule! wilt thou lend
Thy ink and goosequill to a friend,
Who, tho' no Scot, alike reveres
Scots, and Athenians, that have ears?
Alike to me, wherever flock they,—
Scotch Greek, Scotch Yankey, or Scotch Cockney;
I rival Butler's ‘lofty line,’
Deathless to make a son of thine,
Who, speaking truth with modesty,
Was doomed to hell's black pillory;
10
Would have become, alas! the victim
Of true Scotch meekness, and Scotch care;
But, rescu'd by the king of men,
Still lives, to boo and blush again,
And show his slice of Sheffield air.
To all who wish that sight to see,
At two peeps for the half bawbee.
Fain would I honour my high theme,
Scotch worth recording to all time,
And in sweet pickle steep a dream,
As crowdie, or Scotch praise sublime,
Immortal as thy fragrance pure,
Which, long endur'd, may still endure.
But the rich poets, at their own
Cost, furnish thoughts and words alone,
Not pen and ink; and for a bard
To purchase, without cash, is hard,
And, without credit, harder still.
Oh! haste, then, with thy ink and quill,
Or Scotland's ‘sel’ may rue this day,
And, unrecorded, fidge for aye!
But, land of sweets! poor Sawney's home,
Which still he scents, where'er he roam!
No Southron chiel, that kens thee well,
Can e'er forget thy ancient smell,
Nor I, a stranger, may refuse
To make thy memory my Muse.
11
So, to our tale return we, frisky,
And if we can't get ink and pen,
By Jove, we'll chalk, like cross-legg'd men.
It was the middle hour between
The morn and noon. The moorland scene
Seem'd doubly fresh. Above, around,
Heav'n, without bound,
Proud emblem of unfetter'd mind,
Stretch'd like the sea o'er realms of stone,
Eternal both. How sweet and lone,
Like a bird never cag'd, the wind
Bow'd the wild flowers, that rose behind
Pure as new snow! The milk-boy's ass
Cropp'd hastily the way-side grass.
With loop-like neck, and eye intent,
The heron o'er the bog was bent,
While, trembling oft, the sedges green
Show'd where the shy coot fed unseen.
Above the clouds,—and they were few,—
A speck, scarce seen, the swallow flew;
And, oh! what captive would not be
That strong-wing'd bird of liberty?
The whinchat sought the runlet's bed,
The buzzing fly was bright,
The plover clamour'd over head,
The snake lay coil'd in light;
And bluebells, in the bracken's gloom,
Seem'd dreaming of last night's perfume.
Oh, well-known, murmuring, mountain bee,
Mac Whisky turn'd his ear to thee!
Oh, ancient moorlands, waste and wild,
Where he had wander'd when a child!
He thought of Scotland, with a tear;
Hell was below, but Nature here!
With shaken locks, and lifted hand,
He dash'd the drop into the sand:
Then yawn'd at every step he took;
Then drank of brandy's bottled brook;
Then by the highway's flowery side
Lay down to sleep, but dream'd he died,
And went forthwith, aged just threescore,
Where never Scotchman went before,
And never will again, 'tis thought,
Till Shakspeare equals Walter Scott.
The morn and noon. The moorland scene
Seem'd doubly fresh. Above, around,
Heav'n, without bound,
Proud emblem of unfetter'd mind,
Stretch'd like the sea o'er realms of stone,
Eternal both. How sweet and lone,
Like a bird never cag'd, the wind
Bow'd the wild flowers, that rose behind
Pure as new snow! The milk-boy's ass
Cropp'd hastily the way-side grass.
With loop-like neck, and eye intent,
The heron o'er the bog was bent,
While, trembling oft, the sedges green
Show'd where the shy coot fed unseen.
Above the clouds,—and they were few,—
A speck, scarce seen, the swallow flew;
And, oh! what captive would not be
That strong-wing'd bird of liberty?
The whinchat sought the runlet's bed,
The buzzing fly was bright,
The plover clamour'd over head,
The snake lay coil'd in light;
12
Seem'd dreaming of last night's perfume.
Oh, well-known, murmuring, mountain bee,
Mac Whisky turn'd his ear to thee!
Oh, ancient moorlands, waste and wild,
Where he had wander'd when a child!
He thought of Scotland, with a tear;
Hell was below, but Nature here!
With shaken locks, and lifted hand,
He dash'd the drop into the sand:
Then yawn'd at every step he took;
Then drank of brandy's bottled brook;
Then by the highway's flowery side
Lay down to sleep, but dream'd he died,
And went forthwith, aged just threescore,
Where never Scotchman went before,
And never will again, 'tis thought,
Till Shakspeare equals Walter Scott.
While keenly blew the biting North,
He dream'd his spirit wander'd forth,
Without or plaid, or shoon, or hose;
But still, behind a greenish nose,
(Whose pimples did not fail to tell
The wearer once lik'd whisky well,)
He seem'd to trudge, beneath the pall
Of darkness supernatural.
The wind, that hurried sullenly,
Not o'er, but through a starless ocean,
(Like swift Time in Eternity,)
Whisper'd alone of life, or motion;
And soon that wind, like one grown old,
Expired,—and all was gloom and cold.
Long then he roam'd the realms of night,
With twinkling nose, his only light,—
Which, glimmering pale on shadows, show'd
That death had pav'd with ice the road;
And o'er a gulph of darkness lay
That narrow, strange, and dismal way.
He seem'd to move with hollow tread,
O'er countless fragments of the dead,
Yet could not trace
Or limb, or face;
No bone, no frozen winding-sheet,
Crackled beneath his feet:
No sound was there, no flutter'd wing,
No leaf, no form, no living thing,—
No beating heart but his,—no air;
But cold that pierc'd the soul was there,
And horror which no tongue can tell,
And silence insupportable:
'Twas depth unplumb'd, 'twas gloom untrod,
'Twas shuddering thought alone with God!
And on he went alone,—alone,—
And felt like life froz'n into stone;
Or life, in earth and gloom laid low,
With pangs untold, with speechless woe,
With buried soul; that living death,
That direst life, which heaves no breath,
Which would, but cannot, move or moan,
Yet feels, and bears, too weak to groan,
(While the worm pauses, as in awe,)
What life, unburied, hath not known,
And e'en abhors in thought to bear.
His tears were frozen in his heart:
He knew he was, but knew not where;
He felt he was a thing apart
From all companionship,—a bird
That wings th' eternal calm, unheard;
On death's wide waste the conscious one;
A flag above the waves, with none
To tell that ship and crew are gone;
A sad memorial, never read;
A meteor in the eyeless gloom;
A blind, endanger'd wretch, unled,
Who would have flown on the lightning's wing
To clasp earth's foulest living thing.
He fear'd no worse, but curs'd his doom,
And mutter'd, in his dreary mood,
“There is no hell but solitude!”
He dream'd his spirit wander'd forth,
Without or plaid, or shoon, or hose;
But still, behind a greenish nose,
(Whose pimples did not fail to tell
The wearer once lik'd whisky well,)
He seem'd to trudge, beneath the pall
Of darkness supernatural.
13
Not o'er, but through a starless ocean,
(Like swift Time in Eternity,)
Whisper'd alone of life, or motion;
And soon that wind, like one grown old,
Expired,—and all was gloom and cold.
Long then he roam'd the realms of night,
With twinkling nose, his only light,—
Which, glimmering pale on shadows, show'd
That death had pav'd with ice the road;
And o'er a gulph of darkness lay
That narrow, strange, and dismal way.
He seem'd to move with hollow tread,
O'er countless fragments of the dead,
Yet could not trace
Or limb, or face;
No bone, no frozen winding-sheet,
Crackled beneath his feet:
No sound was there, no flutter'd wing,
No leaf, no form, no living thing,—
No beating heart but his,—no air;
But cold that pierc'd the soul was there,
And horror which no tongue can tell,
And silence insupportable:
'Twas depth unplumb'd, 'twas gloom untrod,
'Twas shuddering thought alone with God!
And on he went alone,—alone,—
And felt like life froz'n into stone;
14
With pangs untold, with speechless woe,
With buried soul; that living death,
That direst life, which heaves no breath,
Which would, but cannot, move or moan,
Yet feels, and bears, too weak to groan,
(While the worm pauses, as in awe,)
What life, unburied, hath not known,
And e'en abhors in thought to bear.
His tears were frozen in his heart:
He knew he was, but knew not where;
He felt he was a thing apart
From all companionship,—a bird
That wings th' eternal calm, unheard;
On death's wide waste the conscious one;
A flag above the waves, with none
To tell that ship and crew are gone;
A sad memorial, never read;
A meteor in the eyeless gloom;
A blind, endanger'd wretch, unled,
Who would have flown on the lightning's wing
To clasp earth's foulest living thing.
He fear'd no worse, but curs'd his doom,
And mutter'd, in his dreary mood,
“There is no hell but solitude!”
But, while with deep and deeper sadness,
And almost madness,
He thought of earth, and all the gladness
That once was his, by th' alehouse fire;
(Where sate the beggar, like a squire
With Maister Sawneys, who could pay,
Proud as the de'il their groat to spend;)
And brandy, once his warmest friend,
Now cold to him, and far away;
His nose, he thought, wax'd dim, and dimmer.
Soon darkness wan'd into a glimmer.
Anon, a star dawn'd on his sight,
And biggen'd into painful light,
A sun in universal night,
Shining alone. Yet, petrified
With cold, he seem'd, perforce, to glide,—
Borne, like a leaf, on Fate's dark tide,
Until that lonely orb became
The palace (so he deem'd) of flame,
With roof on star-high pillars borne;
And thence stream'd wide a horrid morn,
That flung infernal splendors o'er
The sea of gloom without a shore.
Thither he went, he knew not why;
He enter'd there inaudibly;
Then silent stood, and, shuddering, gazed
On giant fiends, who toil'd and blaz'd,
And laugh'd in frantic mirth, not ire,
And utter'd speech of soundless fire,—
A language splendid to the sight,
And beautiful, if not polite.
They seem'd, in truth, a jolly set,
As e'er round alehouse ingle met.
On them no wight for poor-rate call'd;
To them no priest for tithe-pig bawl'd;
No parson-justice threatn'd jail,
For death of partridge, hare, or quail;
No starv'd and toil-worn wretch was told,
By printed praises, bought and sold,
Of public charities by th' score,
Upheld by monks with livings four,
And meant the price of livings more.
No plunder'd widow shriek'd for watchmen;
No Scotch slave crack'd of ‘lofty Scotchmen;’
No hireling, beggar-born in vain,
Talk'd of ‘unwiring his champaign;’
No glorious Constitution bless'd them;
No Borough's Light-o'-love caress'd them;
Unlike our wretches nick-named free,
(And truly free to toil and pay,
And die by famine's sad decay,)
No fiend among them long'd to be
A negro slave, that he might flee
From pomp, scorn, hunger, liberty;
Unlike our saints, 'twas their delight
To wash repentant Ethiopes white;
Make purse-pride lick the beggar's feet,
Who swept for daily bread the street;
Not flatter power, but punish wrong;
Not spurn the weak, but bend the strong.
Unenvious stood our hero, long
Gazing on that infernal throng;
For, with rebellious nostrils loth,
He snuff'd the fume of brimstone-broth;
Bad smell, I ween! for he in troth,
Puff'd back the dingy vapour slow,
And yearn'd for canny Edinbro'!
He cough'd amain, ‘in fragrant pain;’
He held his nose, and cough'd again:
He curs'd the air so thick and hot,
And wish'd himself with Walter Scott,
Sir William Curtis, and the King,
Where round sirloin, in courtly ring,
A thousand chins were wagging all
Beneath the dome of festival.
Far, far, from Scotland's feast, was he,
'Mid scenes of woe, and shapes accurs'd,
And feasts are rare i' th' North Countree!
Yet, tho' half choak'd, and ‘like to burst,’
Soon, less perturbed, he turn'd away
From those flame-breathers, to survey
The other wonders, sad and dire,
Of that tremendous hall of fire;
Terrific sights, which, soul subdu'd,
Mac Whisky, mute with horror, viewed.
Sweating, he cring'd and shudder'd there
To th' point of every people'd hair;
His carcass, restless as the ocean,
Seem'd one grey sea, alive with motion;
While hell,—like ev'ry earthly region,—
Own'd that a Scotchman is a legion.
And almost madness,
He thought of earth, and all the gladness
15
(Where sate the beggar, like a squire
With Maister Sawneys, who could pay,
Proud as the de'il their groat to spend;)
And brandy, once his warmest friend,
Now cold to him, and far away;
His nose, he thought, wax'd dim, and dimmer.
Soon darkness wan'd into a glimmer.
Anon, a star dawn'd on his sight,
And biggen'd into painful light,
A sun in universal night,
Shining alone. Yet, petrified
With cold, he seem'd, perforce, to glide,—
Borne, like a leaf, on Fate's dark tide,
Until that lonely orb became
The palace (so he deem'd) of flame,
With roof on star-high pillars borne;
And thence stream'd wide a horrid morn,
That flung infernal splendors o'er
The sea of gloom without a shore.
Thither he went, he knew not why;
He enter'd there inaudibly;
Then silent stood, and, shuddering, gazed
On giant fiends, who toil'd and blaz'd,
And laugh'd in frantic mirth, not ire,
And utter'd speech of soundless fire,—
A language splendid to the sight,
And beautiful, if not polite.
16
As e'er round alehouse ingle met.
On them no wight for poor-rate call'd;
To them no priest for tithe-pig bawl'd;
No parson-justice threatn'd jail,
For death of partridge, hare, or quail;
No starv'd and toil-worn wretch was told,
By printed praises, bought and sold,
Of public charities by th' score,
Upheld by monks with livings four,
And meant the price of livings more.
No plunder'd widow shriek'd for watchmen;
No Scotch slave crack'd of ‘lofty Scotchmen;’
No hireling, beggar-born in vain,
Talk'd of ‘unwiring his champaign;’
No glorious Constitution bless'd them;
No Borough's Light-o'-love caress'd them;
Unlike our wretches nick-named free,
(And truly free to toil and pay,
And die by famine's sad decay,)
No fiend among them long'd to be
A negro slave, that he might flee
From pomp, scorn, hunger, liberty;
Unlike our saints, 'twas their delight
To wash repentant Ethiopes white;
Make purse-pride lick the beggar's feet,
Who swept for daily bread the street;
17
Not spurn the weak, but bend the strong.
Unenvious stood our hero, long
Gazing on that infernal throng;
For, with rebellious nostrils loth,
He snuff'd the fume of brimstone-broth;
Bad smell, I ween! for he in troth,
Puff'd back the dingy vapour slow,
And yearn'd for canny Edinbro'!
He cough'd amain, ‘in fragrant pain;’
He held his nose, and cough'd again:
He curs'd the air so thick and hot,
And wish'd himself with Walter Scott,
Sir William Curtis, and the King,
Where round sirloin, in courtly ring,
A thousand chins were wagging all
Beneath the dome of festival.
Far, far, from Scotland's feast, was he,
'Mid scenes of woe, and shapes accurs'd,
And feasts are rare i' th' North Countree!
Yet, tho' half choak'd, and ‘like to burst,’
Soon, less perturbed, he turn'd away
From those flame-breathers, to survey
The other wonders, sad and dire,
Of that tremendous hall of fire;
Terrific sights, which, soul subdu'd,
Mac Whisky, mute with horror, viewed.
18
To th' point of every people'd hair;
His carcass, restless as the ocean,
Seem'd one grey sea, alive with motion;
While hell,—like ev'ry earthly region,—
Own'd that a Scotchman is a legion.
19
BOOK II.
Light!—But not thou, ‘etherial stream
Pure,’ whose divine remember'd beam
The bard of Eden hymn'd, with might
Almost than human more!—Hail, Light,
Infernal Light! hail, and for ever
Glow, like a tax-fed Tory's liver!
Hail, and endure, like England's debt,
That rock of power, unshaken yet,
And shaking all!—whether thou be
An effluence of divinity,
Or, self-existent, though unholy,
Kills virtue's self with melancholy,
To think that evil, ever true
To evil, should be deathless, too;
Hail, and for aye illumine hell,
Still burning unconsumable!
For, though thou'rt dire to folks like me,
Some of our saints could ill spare thee;
And how, without my brimstone theme,
Could I through three books doze and dream,
And in this canto paint so weel
The Methyr Tidvil o' the De'il?
Pure,’ whose divine remember'd beam
The bard of Eden hymn'd, with might
Almost than human more!—Hail, Light,
Infernal Light! hail, and for ever
Glow, like a tax-fed Tory's liver!
Hail, and endure, like England's debt,
That rock of power, unshaken yet,
And shaking all!—whether thou be
An effluence of divinity,
Or, self-existent, though unholy,
Kills virtue's self with melancholy,
To think that evil, ever true
To evil, should be deathless, too;
Hail, and for aye illumine hell,
Still burning unconsumable!
For, though thou'rt dire to folks like me,
Some of our saints could ill spare thee;
And how, without my brimstone theme,
Could I through three books doze and dream,
20
The Methyr Tidvil o' the De'il?
Throughout the vast interior spread
In heaps, Mac Whisky saw the dead,
Stern fates' innumerable hosts,
Huge piles of sin-atoning ghosts.
Tir'd demons plac'd, with practis'd art,
Each quality of souls apart,
O'er all the floor interminable;
The brittle, and the malleable,
The thin, the thick, the smooth, the rough,
The middle-cut, and very-tough;
While others to the furnace bore
Poor struggling souls, and shook and tore
Hot cinders from each scaly hide,
Then brought them out half purified;
Or, pincer-armed, with nice address
Annealing cold short consciences,
Drew forth, worm-red, a griping crew,
And turn'd the hungry grey to blue.
In heaps, Mac Whisky saw the dead,
Stern fates' innumerable hosts,
Huge piles of sin-atoning ghosts.
Tir'd demons plac'd, with practis'd art,
Each quality of souls apart,
O'er all the floor interminable;
The brittle, and the malleable,
The thin, the thick, the smooth, the rough,
The middle-cut, and very-tough;
While others to the furnace bore
Poor struggling souls, and shook and tore
Hot cinders from each scaly hide,
Then brought them out half purified;
Or, pincer-armed, with nice address
Annealing cold short consciences,
Drew forth, worm-red, a griping crew,
And turn'd the hungry grey to blue.
Around, on every-hand, appear'd
Scenes, that from hearts to cinders sear'd
Might draw a Tory's case-hard tear,
And wake to shrieks his despot-fear.
Here, a tormenter wash'd, with fire,
A loyal game-protecting squire;
And told him, 'twas a right manorial
Of tyrants, from time immemorial.
Scenes, that from hearts to cinders sear'd
Might draw a Tory's case-hard tear,
And wake to shrieks his despot-fear.
21
A loyal game-protecting squire;
And told him, 'twas a right manorial
Of tyrants, from time immemorial.
There a Right Reverend, just imported,
Heard himself call'd a rank dissenter;
Amazed, his slanderer he exhorted,
By meekly kicking the tormenter:
‘Ye dogs,’ he cried, ‘what right have you
To scald a bishop of Yahoo?
I will in Kingikin complain,
Where bishops do not sit in vain.’
But to his nose the demon blythe
Clapp'd a hot coke, and call'd it tythe,
Then held his tough sides lustily,
While Mitre yell'd ‘No popery!’
Heard himself call'd a rank dissenter;
Amazed, his slanderer he exhorted,
By meekly kicking the tormenter:
‘Ye dogs,’ he cried, ‘what right have you
To scald a bishop of Yahoo?
I will in Kingikin complain,
Where bishops do not sit in vain.’
But to his nose the demon blythe
Clapp'd a hot coke, and call'd it tythe,
Then held his tough sides lustily,
While Mitre yell'd ‘No popery!’
Him follow'd, demon-urged and faint,
A sort of advertising saint,
Or modern charitable knave,
Who seem'd to give more than he gave,
And made of charity a trade:
To hogwash for the poor, he paid;
And, while of want his neighbour died,
Sent books, to rot, o'er ocean wide.
Still for example sake gave he,
And not a doit in privacy.
Panting he carried on his back,
Of daily, weekly prints, a pack,
That made his holy sinews crack.
No wight was better known to fame;
In Sunday newspapers his name,
With saving virtues duly stuff'd,
Like a quack medicine, was puff'd:
He was an Ophir to saint-bribers
Who advertised their meek subscribers.
And his tormenters, sneering, swore
They truly wish'd for nothing more,
For that the moneys he had given,
Had purchas'd hell, if not brib'd heaven.
A sort of advertising saint,
Or modern charitable knave,
Who seem'd to give more than he gave,
And made of charity a trade:
To hogwash for the poor, he paid;
And, while of want his neighbour died,
Sent books, to rot, o'er ocean wide.
Still for example sake gave he,
And not a doit in privacy.
22
Of daily, weekly prints, a pack,
That made his holy sinews crack.
No wight was better known to fame;
In Sunday newspapers his name,
With saving virtues duly stuff'd,
Like a quack medicine, was puff'd:
He was an Ophir to saint-bribers
Who advertised their meek subscribers.
And his tormenters, sneering, swore
They truly wish'd for nothing more,
For that the moneys he had given,
Had purchas'd hell, if not brib'd heaven.
Then, tottering came, in alter'd form,
The pilot wise ‘who brought the storm:’
He, flame-baptiz'd, cut many a caper;
‘Water!’ he cried,—they gave him paper.
The pilot wise ‘who brought the storm:’
He, flame-baptiz'd, cut many a caper;
‘Water!’ he cried,—they gave him paper.
Next, mobb'd by Radicals, appear'd,
With fundamentals scorch'd and sear'd,
A sage well-wigg'd and eloquent,
From the new-found Southern Continent;
And while three imps, with caustic paw,
Curl'd crisp the learned wig of law,
Red as a turkey's gill with fury,
He roar'd out for a Special Jury.
But the most abject wretch of all
Seem'd a patrician, broad as tall,
Fat, and yet famish'd: flesh and blood
With death seem'd struggling, as he stood:
‘Bread, for a dying man!’ he cried,
But none his urgent want supplied.
When paper-price, and war-demand,
Sad cot, full jail, and cheapen'd penny,
Had tempted him to 'gage his land,
And sell his soul,—if he had any;
When tripled rents, and proven lies,
Ope'd the bedandied farmer's eyes;
Who, borne no more on Arab steed,
Pawn'd even his dame's strange silks for need;
When ruin'd trade, and stricken docket,
Made loyal merchants seek their brains,
And find them in an empty pocket;
When labour, robb'd of half his gains,
Sternly declar'd his right to live;
And still the horse-leech cried ‘Give! Give!
He then read Malthus, through and through,
And thought himself a Malthus, too,
For soon he found the truth untrue.
He prov'd that want is labour's daughter;
That man's divine ally is slaughter;
That public waste, which plain folks hate so,
Is caus'd by that vile root, potato;
That when folks starve, wise men should let them.
In hell the case was alter'd quite,
For every fiend could read and write.
He hunger'd, but he fed not there,
Thirsted, and drank the fiery air;
While, deaf as stones to his distress,
The rogues seem'd Tories, pitiless.
With fundamentals scorch'd and sear'd,
A sage well-wigg'd and eloquent,
From the new-found Southern Continent;
And while three imps, with caustic paw,
Curl'd crisp the learned wig of law,
Red as a turkey's gill with fury,
He roar'd out for a Special Jury.
23
Seem'd a patrician, broad as tall,
Fat, and yet famish'd: flesh and blood
With death seem'd struggling, as he stood:
‘Bread, for a dying man!’ he cried,
But none his urgent want supplied.
When paper-price, and war-demand,
Sad cot, full jail, and cheapen'd penny,
Had tempted him to 'gage his land,
And sell his soul,—if he had any;
When tripled rents, and proven lies,
Ope'd the bedandied farmer's eyes;
Who, borne no more on Arab steed,
Pawn'd even his dame's strange silks for need;
When ruin'd trade, and stricken docket,
Made loyal merchants seek their brains,
And find them in an empty pocket;
When labour, robb'd of half his gains,
Sternly declar'd his right to live;
And still the horse-leech cried ‘Give! Give!
He then read Malthus, through and through,
And thought himself a Malthus, too,
For soon he found the truth untrue.
He prov'd that want is labour's daughter;
That man's divine ally is slaughter;
That public waste, which plain folks hate so,
Is caus'd by that vile root, potato;
24
In hell the case was alter'd quite,
For every fiend could read and write.
He hunger'd, but he fed not there,
Thirsted, and drank the fiery air;
While, deaf as stones to his distress,
The rogues seem'd Tories, pitiless.
Last, with heart-wrung, heart-breaking air,
And long loose locks, and bended head,
Came one ‘who had no business there,’
Sad, silent, as the beauteous dead.
Taxation, war, and waste, had cloathed
Her husband in the rags he loathed;
Her infant on her breast had died,
Because that fount was unsupplied;
Four other babes to her for food,
Look'd up in vain. With curdling blood,
The note her Edward forg'd, she paid,
And kiss'd her babes! then, undismay'd,
And hand in hand, and side by side,
While thousands sobb'd, with him she died;
And thousands, in the breathless air,
Mix'd with unutter'd curses pray'r.
Now, pale as snow, but not appall'd,
She gaz'd on scenes so strange; and call'd
On Heav'n, to aid the orphan'd four,
Who ne'er would see her sorrow more!
Aside the gloomy fiends all turn'd,
To hide the tear that dropp'd and burn'd;
When, lo, a shadow, angel-strong,
Led by its little hand along
A cherub, like a breathing flower!
She look'd, she gasp'd, she lost all power
Of motion, speech oppress'd with joy:
They shriek, they rush; with rapture wild
As th' lightning's glance, they fly, they meet,
They mingle, in embraces sweet,
Tears, smiles, and souls! then fade away,
And melt into eternal day!
Like wanderers who had lost their road,
They seek their far, divine abode!
And long loose locks, and bended head,
Came one ‘who had no business there,’
Sad, silent, as the beauteous dead.
Taxation, war, and waste, had cloathed
Her husband in the rags he loathed;
Her infant on her breast had died,
Because that fount was unsupplied;
Four other babes to her for food,
Look'd up in vain. With curdling blood,
The note her Edward forg'd, she paid,
Here is an example of the condensation of nothing, with a vengeance. The author intended, no doubt, that the reader should admire the pregnant brevity of this passage, and not fail to perceive that in four words are expressed all the awful circumstances which occurred between the uttering of the forged note and the final separation of the parent from her children,—the detection of the offender, the trial, the condemnation, the agony, the horror, and the mother's bursting heart. And all this might be supposed, by one who understood trap, and happened to be in the secret. But in these dim-sighted and reviewing days, let no writer attempt to revive the Dantean style of narration; forbid it, all noses ‘spectacle bestrid.’ How much better would the description have been, (that is to say, how much more intelligible to learned and profound noddles,) had the author minutely related, in the good old round-about legitimate way, what is now left to the imagination of the reader. He would then have been certain of meeting the approbation of the infallible Monthly. And when a man has the dunces on his side, what need he care a straw about the wise men? —Printer's Devil.
And kiss'd her babes! then, undismay'd,
And hand in hand, and side by side,
While thousands sobb'd, with him she died;
And thousands, in the breathless air,
Mix'd with unutter'd curses pray'r.
Now, pale as snow, but not appall'd,
She gaz'd on scenes so strange; and call'd
On Heav'n, to aid the orphan'd four,
Who ne'er would see her sorrow more!
25
To hide the tear that dropp'd and burn'd;
When, lo, a shadow, angel-strong,
Led by its little hand along
A cherub, like a breathing flower!
She look'd, she gasp'd, she lost all power
Of motion, speech oppress'd with joy:
They shriek, they rush; with rapture wild
As th' lightning's glance, they fly, they meet,
They mingle, in embraces sweet,
Tears, smiles, and souls! then fade away,
And melt into eternal day!
Like wanderers who had lost their road,
They seek their far, divine abode!
Swift, in the centre roll'd a wheel,
By torrents urg'd of melted steel,
(Than Teneriff or Etna higher,
A rushing overshot of fire,)
To which attach'd, a hammer rav'd,
That rock'd the floor of hell fire-pav'd;
While gnarled hearts, that could not melt,
And ne'er a touch of pity felt,
Receiv'd the oft-repeated stroke,
And long endured, and never broke,
Though stoutest devils tugg'd and swore,
And turn'd the granite o'er and o'er:
Alas! 'twould make ev'n Satan pant,
To soften human adamant!
Reclin'd, and stern as turban'd Turk,
Watching the labourers at their work,
Lean'd one who, by his haughty air,
Was master of the demons there.
No king, by kinglings rul'd, he seem'd;
‘Legitimate’ on his forehead beam'd;
Yet seem'd his dark glance backward cast;
To him the present was the past.
Chain'd, in his soul sate passion's force,
Pride, hate, regret, but not remorse;
And on his brow, which seem'd to ache,
Sad thought lay, like a coiled snake.
He long, unmov'd, the stranger saw,
Who stood aloof and pale in awe.
Slowly, at length, he rais'd his head,
With locks of cluster'd darkness spread;
And, in his calm and dreadful eye,
Undiadem'd regality
Seem'd yet heaven's rival, and prepar'd
(Though not for war on heav'n,) to guard
Hell, ev'n in chains, and aim a brand
At all assault. With beckoning hand,
He call'd the stranger, who obey'd;
Then on his wame his left hand laid,
And, on his haunches rear'd, seem'd tall
As ‘mast of some great admiral;’
While from his princely lips forthcame
The soundless words, the speech of flame.
Thus, with his guest, sans hesitation,
The devil join'd in conversation.
SATAN.By torrents urg'd of melted steel,
(Than Teneriff or Etna higher,
A rushing overshot of fire,)
To which attach'd, a hammer rav'd,
That rock'd the floor of hell fire-pav'd;
While gnarled hearts, that could not melt,
And ne'er a touch of pity felt,
Receiv'd the oft-repeated stroke,
And long endured, and never broke,
Though stoutest devils tugg'd and swore,
And turn'd the granite o'er and o'er:
26
To soften human adamant!
Reclin'd, and stern as turban'd Turk,
Watching the labourers at their work,
Lean'd one who, by his haughty air,
Was master of the demons there.
No king, by kinglings rul'd, he seem'd;
‘Legitimate’ on his forehead beam'd;
Yet seem'd his dark glance backward cast;
To him the present was the past.
Chain'd, in his soul sate passion's force,
Pride, hate, regret, but not remorse;
And on his brow, which seem'd to ache,
Sad thought lay, like a coiled snake.
He long, unmov'd, the stranger saw,
Who stood aloof and pale in awe.
Slowly, at length, he rais'd his head,
With locks of cluster'd darkness spread;
And, in his calm and dreadful eye,
Undiadem'd regality
Seem'd yet heaven's rival, and prepar'd
(Though not for war on heav'n,) to guard
Hell, ev'n in chains, and aim a brand
At all assault. With beckoning hand,
He call'd the stranger, who obey'd;
Then on his wame his left hand laid,
And, on his haunches rear'd, seem'd tall
As ‘mast of some great admiral;’
27
The soundless words, the speech of flame.
Thus, with his guest, sans hesitation,
The devil join'd in conversation.
Thou seem'st of Scotland, copper-hair,
Say, is it as thy locks declare?
MAC WHISKY.
I am of Scotland, sire! a Thane.
SATAN.
As I perceive, of Sillernane.
But what dost here, half-witted Scot,
At such a time? why art thou not
With all true Scotchmen, playing Cant
I' th' farce of King and Sycophant?
MAC WHISKY.
Because there is not now, alas,
One genuine Tory-Hudibras
In all wide England, no, not one!
The saints are all to Scotland gone;
Each loyal, vice-suppressing slave,
Each tax-fed, church-defending knave,
Fra' London north have traavel'd post;
And, left without a cloak behind,
28
Cries, ‘Sawney's occupation's lost.’
SATAN.
Art thou descended from Mac Prog,
Whose ancestor was famed Mac Log?
MAC WHISKY.
I am allied to names as great.
SATAN.
But, fallen from thy high estate;
An exile from thy home and clan,
Thou traavel'st, like a gentleman,
Though—
MAC WHISKY.
‘Honest men, howe'er ill-fed,
Are God's best works,’ our bard hath said,
(Ramsay, or Pope, I know not which;)
But, sire, I am a Thane, and rich.
SATAN.
Was Pope a Scot?
MAC WHISKY.
He had the itch,
The symptom national; which I
Deem the true cause and reason why
29
But scratch and boo, and fidge and roam.
SATAN.
Scotland, indeed, though poor and cold,
Is fam'd for brimstone.
MAC WHISKY.
And for gold.
SATAN.
Then, is it true that Scotchmen eat
Saw-dust on holidays, and treat
Invited guests with bracken-broth?
MAC WHISKY.
'Tis true that I have tasted both.
SATAN.
But, living in a frugal way,
You touch not dainties every day.
Ghosts have inform'd us, you regale
On buttermilk and whey turn'd stale,
If bent on being rather merry;
And gude Kail-wash with yeast, if very:
What proof canst thou adduce, that those
Informants did not lie?
30
My nose;
For this enormous nose, by nature,
Was quite a puny dwarf in stature.
SATAN.
Yet Burns beat hemp and flax, 'tis said;
And did not Allan shave for bread?
MAC WHISKY.
Our bards are lords and knights, keep mustard,
Have meat o' Sundays, sometimes custard,
And will, till time's long race is run,
Be squires, at least.
SATAN.
Does the same sun
That warms your land from end to end,
And ripens bracken, condescend
To shine on barren southern climes,
Where pigs are fed on oats?
MAC WHISKY.
Sometimes,
We lend our moon, too, 'tis well known.
SATAN.
And you've a comet of your own?
31
Aye, but, in troth, he likes not Kail.
SATAN.
And vows he'll no more show his tail,
Where prose prefers a pair of quails
To twice two hundred comets' tails.
MAC WHISKY.
Such pride becomes the soul unbow'd:
Sire! we, indeed, are somedeal proud.
But who can better sit, t' himsel',
And paint the devil out of hell,
Than Byron can? or roam abroad,
And rhyme o' th' unco's on the road?
Or turn to crambo sheets o' prose
Longer than Kemble's sisters' nose?
And in chaste wit he beats, I ween,
Our Swift, Saint Andrew's gentle dean.
SATAN.
Was Swift a Scot?
MAC WHISKY.
I am his brother.
SATAN.
Was Locke a Scot?
32
He was the other:
Ye ken, mon, we were breethren three.
SATAN.
And Locke was bottle-nos'd like thee.
Was Shakspeare, who wrote plays by dozens,
A Sawney?
MAC WHISKY.
We were second cousins.
SATAN.
But Milton never saw Tam-Tallan.
MAC WHISKY.
No, but he stole his thoughts fra' Allan.
SATAN.
And Newton was an Englishman.
MAC WHISKY.
What! ken ye no' Mac Newton's clan?
Beside, all Scotland kens 'tis true,
Black taught him more—
SATAN.
—Than both e'er knew.
33
To any other men of worth?
MAC WHISKY.
The noblest men that glory knows
Were true born Scots, all history shews;
In proof, I need but name Buchanan,
But th' Mantuan bard was born in Annan.
And, as it was in ancient days,
Still Scotland's soil brings crops of praise.
My nephew, Chantrey, hath no peer
In sculpture: as an engineer
Watt hath no rival, no, not any,
In time past, present, or to come:
What architect approaches Rennie,
Who built Saint Peter's church at Rome?
SATAN.
Land of the never-wearied boo!
Sweet Scotland, weel I sniff thee noo.
Bless'd clime of purity i' th' mire!
What hack of southern breed can tire
A Scotchman's tongue, a Scotch Review,
When Sawney gars old thoughts look new,
And in thy learned praise exhale
Boil'd kail-runts chopp'd, the fresh and stale?
In gude Scotch songs, Scotch tracts, Scotch news,
Scotch plays, Scotch novels, Scotch reviews,
34
Thy prudent, booing sages tell us?
That bracken grows i' th' North Countree,
That Scotch streams run into the sea,
That Scotch worth all worth presupposes,
But not that Scotchmen wipe their noses.
And was not Walter born in Scotland,
Though landless Scott in England got land?
And who like Byron soars and sings?
Ev'n Jeffrey takes his ears for wings;
For him, the poet, with a feather
So thrash'd, that Jeffrey knows not whether
The goosequill, which abused him so,
Were stolen from Raphael's wing, or no;
And, while he lauds ‘the big mon's' verse,
Swears it out-Ossians Homer's erse.
But who, of all thy sons, hath told
That true Scotch itch is rubb'd with gold?
That there were once in Scotland mair
Thistles than vines? and that there are
Twa dishclouts, little worse for wear,
Three stockings, twa three pair o' breeks,
Mair feet than shoon, mair jews than leeks,
Just twenty lords in twenty slaves,
And thirty saints in fifteen knaves,
And sixteen fools, in that famed land
Where brass i' th' face is bread i' th' hand,
35
For genius, learning, wit, but brass?
MAC WHISKY.
Still hating good, and speaking ill,
Thus envy rails, and ever will;
Envy, from which I blush to see
The highest station is not free.
The greatest heroes known to fame
Are Scotchmen,—Wellington and Grahame;
The greatest bard is Cunninghame.
SATAN.
Cunning? Cun!—who the deuce is he?
But, is stiff Tom, who reign'd before
King Byron over Tweedledee,
Dead? or dethron'd?
MAC WHISKY.
He's king no more
But still of bards he's second-best.
SATAN.
Vice-Roy of Humdrum and the rest;
While Rogers, Dribble, and Rhym'd Prose
Take Southey by the laureate's nose.
What growl at wit, like rare old Ben,
What author-slasher can you boast?
36
The king of critics and of men;
Wee Jeffrey, in himself a host.
SATAN.
Jeffrey, the seer, whose prophecies
We read by th' rule of contraries
Impartial Jeffrey, fam'd for giving
Scotch praise to all Scotch scribblers living;
Jeffrey, who praises, with clos'd mouth,
A decree is gone forth, that whoever writes a poem is an ass: there is between him and his object a gulph which cannot be pass'd, no, not even if he make a bridge of his own ears. The publication of a poem, by a man of sense, is become an act incomprehensible to a plain mind; it is deplorable, or ridiculous, in the extreme; like Byron dramatising, or the Monthly Reviewers criticising poetry! Our respectable Reviews, as they are called, are above noticing poetry. Even the Monthly Review begins to assume airs of disdain, and talks very bravely about treating the high crime of poetic merit with silent contempt.
The youngling worthies of the South,
Or wisely leads them into day,
With sweet, reluctant, fond delay;
He who discovers each fam'd book,
The Edinburgh Review, hostile to the Republic of letters, has a tendency to create and support a short-lived aristocracy of scribblers. Well may Jeffrey sneer at the philosophy of Sir Richard Phillips, if his own Review is the principle of gravitation itself. But it is enough that this unhappy publication is the parent of the Quarterly, to say nothing of the Bulls, the Beacons, and the Blackwoods. Blackwood, however, must not be classed with the Bulls and the Beacons. He has the positive merit of having led more than one man of genius into notice, while the liberal instinct of the Unitarian Monthly did its best to crush and destroy, and the pharisaical Edinburgh stood scowling aloof. There is, however, at least, one writer in Blackwood's Magazine to whom Byron himself must yield the palm of exquisite in blackguardism.
Your literary Captain Cook;
He who to Shelly, Moore, and Co.,
Gave everlasting life below;
Just as he would to that low fellow
Shakspeare, were he to write Othello
Or Hamlet now.
MAC WHISKY.
Mere cant of scribblers;
Poor hungry minnows! the small nibblers
At glory's book. How Jeffrey prais'd
The stars of genius, when they rais'd
Their early beacons in the sky,
Ask Byron, or Montgomery?
37
He praised the one who dared defy him,
And would the other, if thrash'd by him.
MAC WHISKY.
Begging your pardon, ye belie him.
He's ane o' th' best o' our braw nation,
Fam'd for warm hearts in every station.
SATAN.
For her, the wrong'd, the dead, who bore
The lov'd, the lost, whom realms deplore,
What tears did generous Scotland shed?
MAC WHISKY.
None. 'Twas no' prudent, or well bred.
SATAN.
In every town, all England through,
Have not the Scotch a club, or two?
MAC WHISKY.
We have.
SATAN.
And for what noble ends?
MAC WHISKY.
We yearly meet, all Scots and friends.
38
To praise skim-whang o'er cheese of Stilton?
MAC WHISKY.
To light our pipes wi' drowsy Milton.
SATAN.
And, while you praise Scotch wit and spirit,
Wipe all your—throats, with English merit.
MAC WHISKY.
Sire! ‘every Scotchman is a legion.’
We congregate in every region,
Proud of our land of godlike men,
And if of her, still more of them,—
Smith, Spenser, Tasso, Arkwright, Pen,
Seth, Deuteronomy, and Shem.
SATAN.
Where is th' tomb o' th' famed Scotch bard
Call'd Homer?
MAC WHISKY.
In Dumfries church-yard:
His widow lives at Inverness,
Where his son, Iliad, married Bess
Cranston o' Glasgow; she was frisky;
He took the sulk, and died of whisky,
39
And swore she could na had a worse one.
SATAN.
There was one Dante, a strange person,
MAC WHISKY.
Of Leith—he had the second-sight,
And fear'd na' ghosts; but died of fright,
Crying, ‘Lord save us! here he is!’
Scar'd out o' life by J---y's phiz.
SATAN.
Thou hast, in truth, a sort of wit;
And, Thane! we're not displeas'd with it:
If we release thee from this den,
Swear! wilt thou traavel home again!
MAC WHISKY.
To Scotchmen home is ever dear;
But I will stay, and traavel here.
SATAN.
Surely, I dream in unreality!
The peopled Scot, and Scot of quality,
Are famed alike for nationality;
Yet thou, a Scotchman not insane,
Refusest to gang bock again!
40
At least their Indian hosts so thought.
Alas, for Scotland's gear, decreas'd
Because her loyalty would feast
With George the great! Such feasts are dear;
But famine's fast is aye sincere;
And therefore would'st thou traavel here?
MAC WHISKY.
Scotland could feast her king three weeks
I am told by a brother devil, who had his information from a person in the secret, namely, the shaffler, of the varlet, of the mustard-keeper in a great house, (which latter personage has a salary of twenty bawbees per month, besides perquisites,) that the author of Waverly, so rich in antiquarian lore, purposes to make his next novel invaluable, by appending to it a dissertation on the famous Scotch cry of ‘Twa dips and a wallop for a bawbee.’ —Printer's Devil.
And feel no dearth of cash or leeks.
I scorn th' insinuation, sir!
To hell itself I still prefer
Rich Scotland,—rich, I say, not poor.
But, sir, I'm now upon my tour;
And therefore 'tis that I refrain
Awhile from ganging bock again.
Ye keep na whisky?
SATAN.
By thy liver,
My rogues drink whisky from the river!
Yon cataract is untaxed stingo.
MAC WHISKY.
Vow! but it talks the warmest lingo
That e'er won love! I long to taste.
41
Is England like a barren waste,
Compar'd with Scotland?
MAC WHISKY.
A mere bog.
SATAN.
What are the English like?
MAC WHISKY.
The hog,
The rat, the spaniel, and the frog.
SATAN.
What said Mac ‘Lofty’ Slave, and lied?
What was't the kettle call'd the pot?
‘Sot! is Dick Surgeon sent for?’ cried
Sir Toby, drunk; ‘I hate a sot!’
MAC WHISKY.
Wallowing through life in sordid mire,
Still each dull son excels his sire.
We sell boos, but to get them given,
Then kick all beggars, and are even:
The English pray,
And toil, and pay,
42
We also boo, but not for nought.
SATAN.
What do they breathe,—air, or Scotch mist?
MAC WHISKY.
Sire, they breathe pork.
SATAN.
Trav'ler? Desist—
Here, knight o' the hoof, such tales wont do,
Ye ken, mon, we have travell'd too.
MAC WHISKY.
Then, I am bound t' exhibit here
A chop o' th' English atmosphere,
Which folks of Paris would declare
To be a true beef-steak of air.
With this good whittle, I mysel'
Cut it fra th' lump, and scrap'd it well,
Resolv'd I would present it to
Your highness,—which I'm proud to do.
Why marvel, sire! In Hallamshire,
A wee bit distric' west o' York,
Are cubic miles o' sic like pork.
'Tis yours, sire! and, as I'm a sinner,
'Tis genuine! Get it cook'd for dinner.
43
He show'd his slice of Sheffield air.
And ne'er liv'd wight, that lov'd to smile,
Who would not e'en have hopp'd a mile
To see the changes that took place
In the astonish'd demon's face,
While,—gazing on what seem'd in hue,
And shape, the sole of some old shoe,—
He turn'd from dusky red to blue,—
From blue to tawny white,—and then
From white to dusky red again;
Until, at last, his angry grey
Flash'd, and in tempest roll'd away.
But our Third Canto shall display
(In lines, good reader, we assure thee,
Worth more than twice their weight in brass,)
What hell's wise prince did in his fury,
And what hereafter came to pass.
49
BOOK III.
Noo will I sniff ye this once more,
Athenians! and my labour's o'er:
Oh, let the savour o' ye gang
Down through my wame, and mak' me strang,
That I may stoutly end this sang!
How can I, poor in verse, refuse
Th' assistance of the fragrant Muse?
I am no Scotchman, wise by birth,
And sure of praise, tho' nothing worth;
I'm one, not many, and no slave;
And (tho' a bard by right divine,)
I praise no dunce,—I bribe no knave,—
I scribble in no magazine;
Nor have I Wordsworth's power to sing
Of pedlars, ‘and that sort of thing:’
But I have got a place i' th' Indies,
Where no Scotch perfume in the wind is;
Therefore, I hail thee once again,
Sweet Scotia's Athens and Cockaigne!
Ere fate cast thousand leagues of sea,
Heav'n's world-sail'd deeps, and many a star,
Between the ancient sweets and me!
Ah, then, in burning climes afar,
('Mid stinks of spices, fruits, and tea,
That turn my nasal soul to thee,)
Eden of odours! ‘what will be
The fragrance of thy memory?’
Athenians! and my labour's o'er:
Oh, let the savour o' ye gang
Down through my wame, and mak' me strang,
That I may stoutly end this sang!
How can I, poor in verse, refuse
Th' assistance of the fragrant Muse?
I am no Scotchman, wise by birth,
And sure of praise, tho' nothing worth;
I'm one, not many, and no slave;
And (tho' a bard by right divine,)
I praise no dunce,—I bribe no knave,—
I scribble in no magazine;
Nor have I Wordsworth's power to sing
Of pedlars, ‘and that sort of thing:’
But I have got a place i' th' Indies,
Where no Scotch perfume in the wind is;
Therefore, I hail thee once again,
Sweet Scotia's Athens and Cockaigne!
50
Heav'n's world-sail'd deeps, and many a star,
Between the ancient sweets and me!
Ah, then, in burning climes afar,
('Mid stinks of spices, fruits, and tea,
That turn my nasal soul to thee,)
Eden of odours! ‘what will be
The fragrance of thy memory?’
Unscar'd by Satan's gather'd brow,
Mac Whisky, with triumphant sneer,
Still held up t'wards th' infernal nose
His chop o' th' Sheffield atmosphere;
When, purple as a frozen watchman,
Thus spoke the devil at the Scotchman:
Mac Whisky, with triumphant sneer,
Still held up t'wards th' infernal nose
His chop o' th' Sheffield atmosphere;
When, purple as a frozen watchman,
Thus spoke the devil at the Scotchman:
“Where men breathe bacon, did'st thou never
Swallow a chaise, or three-ton lever?
All maw and thropple! thou soak'd lie!
Sot! worthy Scotland's sober days;
Kailrunt o' dirt's nobility!
Thy praise defames, thy blame is praise;
And thy Scotch blushes so become thee,
That truth would sound like falsehood from thee!
Behold that hammer! we will try
To knock some sense of decency,
For once, into Sawney's head;
If stone 'twill crack, and crush if lead.
He ended, sweating. Then, in haste,
While all his subjects stood aghast,
He grip'd the nose of mighty stature,
(A wonder, both of art and nature,)
And dragg'd Mac Whisky to the block.
But on his head the hideous shock
Of tons three thousand fell in vain!
Impregnable in scull and brain,
He call'd for whisky, calmly rose,
And stood again behind his nose!
Swallow a chaise, or three-ton lever?
All maw and thropple! thou soak'd lie!
Sot! worthy Scotland's sober days;
Kailrunt o' dirt's nobility!
Thy praise defames, thy blame is praise;
And thy Scotch blushes so become thee,
That truth would sound like falsehood from thee!
Behold that hammer! we will try
To knock some sense of decency,
For once, into Sawney's head;
If stone 'twill crack, and crush if lead.
51
While all his subjects stood aghast,
He grip'd the nose of mighty stature,
(A wonder, both of art and nature,)
And dragg'd Mac Whisky to the block.
But on his head the hideous shock
Of tons three thousand fell in vain!
Impregnable in scull and brain,
He call'd for whisky, calmly rose,
And stood again behind his nose!
“Thus, sire, (he said,) in ocean stands
A rock, the bulwark of the strands,
Girt with prodeegious surges white,
And dark alike in gloom and light;
By wind and tide for ages worn,
It holds the sea, the storm, in scorn,
And (granite still,) tho' bare and gray,
Like heav'n itself, defies decay.”
A rock, the bulwark of the strands,
Girt with prodeegious surges white,
And dark alike in gloom and light;
By wind and tide for ages worn,
It holds the sea, the storm, in scorn,
And (granite still,) tho' bare and gray,
Like heav'n itself, defies decay.”
Thus, in his bashfulness, he said,
And meekly stood unanswered.
But of an ancient engine, used
To punish demons that abused
With whisper'd scoffing their high king,
Satan bethought him, pondering;
An engine 'twas, in hell fear'd more
Than, by our saints, the scarlet whore.
Forthwith, the re-assur'd Dictator
Call'd for the Ear-excruciator,
Determin'd, in an evil hour,
That the bold Scot should feel its power.
Grimly he mutter'd, “'Tis in vain,
'Tis worse than vain, his sconce to strike;
His noddle's hammer proof, that's plain!
But let us try if he's alike
Invincible in ear and brain.”
And meekly stood unanswered.
But of an ancient engine, used
To punish demons that abused
With whisper'd scoffing their high king,
Satan bethought him, pondering;
An engine 'twas, in hell fear'd more
Than, by our saints, the scarlet whore.
52
Call'd for the Ear-excruciator,
Determin'd, in an evil hour,
That the bold Scot should feel its power.
Grimly he mutter'd, “'Tis in vain,
'Tis worse than vain, his sconce to strike;
His noddle's hammer proof, that's plain!
But let us try if he's alike
Invincible in ear and brain.”
He said, and in'ly-smiling, burn'd
For vengeance; red as fire, he turn'd,
And bade the all-shunn'd fiend, Squallee,
Brass-hair'd and freckled hideously,
Apply the ear-torture to the Scot.
The pleas'd tormentor, proud to do
His speedy utmost, linger'd not;
But haste speeds ill: they little knew
That hell's most penal instrument
Might be well said to represent
The music of an ancient nation!
He paus'd awhile, in preparation,
And till the fiends, in horror's haste,
Had plugg'd their ears with brimstone paste.
But, spite of plugs, when he 'gan squall
His mingled bray and catterwaul,
And boomit forth, with elbow'd squeeze,
His chapel-hum, in ceaseless breeze,
They made the dismalest wry faces
That e'er sour'd vinegar in hell;
What then? to th' Scotchman, their grimaces
Were proofs they lik'd Scotch music well;
And, clawing th' rump o' th' torturer,
He roar'd out, “Well play'd, bagpiper!”
Then every fiend, amaz'd, could trace
Like wonder in his brother's face!
And Satan's horrid eye-balls blaz'd
As on the stoic Scot he gaz'd!
But when his brow turn'd black and fell,
A brighter glare illumin'd hell,
And on eternal midnight stole
Light,—like a vision to the soul,
When, on misfortune's long despair,
Hope smiles again, and melts in air,
Leaving the cheated heart to know
What gladness springs from added woe.
His whirlwind stride, and thund'rous brow,
As rush'd he through th' infernal room,
Shook the huge nose, and boundless gloom;
And from his glance shrank farthest space.
But soon he clear'd his awful face,
And smiles crept o'er it by degrees,
But when in laughter he outbrake,
Hell reel'd with mirth; and thus he spake:
For vengeance; red as fire, he turn'd,
And bade the all-shunn'd fiend, Squallee,
Brass-hair'd and freckled hideously,
Apply the ear-torture to the Scot.
The pleas'd tormentor, proud to do
His speedy utmost, linger'd not;
But haste speeds ill: they little knew
That hell's most penal instrument
Might be well said to represent
The music of an ancient nation!
He paus'd awhile, in preparation,
And till the fiends, in horror's haste,
Had plugg'd their ears with brimstone paste.
But, spite of plugs, when he 'gan squall
His mingled bray and catterwaul,
And boomit forth, with elbow'd squeeze,
His chapel-hum, in ceaseless breeze,
53
That e'er sour'd vinegar in hell;
What then? to th' Scotchman, their grimaces
Were proofs they lik'd Scotch music well;
And, clawing th' rump o' th' torturer,
He roar'd out, “Well play'd, bagpiper!”
Then every fiend, amaz'd, could trace
Like wonder in his brother's face!
And Satan's horrid eye-balls blaz'd
As on the stoic Scot he gaz'd!
But when his brow turn'd black and fell,
A brighter glare illumin'd hell,
And on eternal midnight stole
Light,—like a vision to the soul,
When, on misfortune's long despair,
Hope smiles again, and melts in air,
Leaving the cheated heart to know
What gladness springs from added woe.
His whirlwind stride, and thund'rous brow,
As rush'd he through th' infernal room,
Shook the huge nose, and boundless gloom;
And from his glance shrank farthest space.
But soon he clear'd his awful face,
And smiles crept o'er it by degrees,
But when in laughter he outbrake,
Hell reel'd with mirth; and thus he spake:
“Can wisdom teach the unco' wise?
Conceit's the worm that never dies.
Old England may forget to pay
The fidging crew she ought to flay;
Or dames o' th' Monthly to supply
Meek caudle for grown infancy;
But ne'er will Sawney cease to lie
For Scotland, left he well knows why.
In vain we pummel this true Scot;
For true Scotch merit alters not,
But still, where'er the Scotchman dwell,
Is found unchanged, unchangeable.
Thus Suffolk cheese, hung up to view,
In honour of “thrice-skimm'd sky-blue,”
Can battle with th' inclement sky,
And wind, and rain, and Time defy;
And stones, call'd kanks par excellence,
Will still be kanks, long ages hence.
Empires may fall, and dynasties;
But still the exalted cheese is cheese.
Virtue may wage vain war with fate,
Be hurl'd, unwept, from high estate,
And cease with honour'd names to rank;
But still immortal kank is kank.
And ne'er will Scotland cease to be
The cradle of humility,—
That babe, too pure, too meek, to mend,
And sweet alike at either end;
That blushless babe, which smiles at scorn;
That prudent babe, with nerves of bone;
Born shameless, soulless, tearless,—born
With brazen face, that turns to stone.
Oh, Tweed! thou bourn ne'er pass'd in vain,
Which, pass'd, no Scot will pass again!
Scotland the Scotch, Scots Scotchmen laud,
Where'er they go; while folks abroad
Listen, and ask, with curious air,
What sort of grapes Scotch thistles bear?
And soon no Caledonian fist
Can rub an itching palm or wrist;
But Scotch Reviews will prove to all,
By reasonings philosophical,
That Scotchmen, still to instinct true,
By instinct scratch, as well as boo!
Ah! who like Sawney is respected?
For when was Sawney self-neglected?
And who has seen ‘creation's heir,’
That e'er forgot his placid stare?
Where is the land that doth not know him?
Or would not say ‘Adieu!’ unto him?
And is there aught in slander'd hell
So meek as Maister Sawney's sel'?
The pulpit-de'il must capless stand
When Sawney gets the upper hand.
A spaniel, if not worth a groat,
If rich, he richer would be thought,
And stings the poor with purse-proud scorn,
To prove himself was dunghill born.
Ye western climes, where men are tawny!
Climes unco' weel acquaint' wi' Sawney!
Can you believe the news abroad,
That Sawney hath forsworn the road?
Canadians! wont to sweat with fear
Whene'er ye deem'd a Scotchman near!
And cry, ‘Scotch Yankey!’ if ye spied
A brass-hair'd stranger, vulture-ey'd,
With endless smile, and meikle cheek!
Your children need not run and squeak;
Their mothers need not lock the door;
For ne'er will Sawney traavel more.
The Scotch have found, by th' second sight,
That none, born south of Tweed, can write;
And all the fidging race, 'tis said,
Will stay at home, and get their bread
By writing books, with hungry speed,
Which English fools will buy and read.
Good news, if true! received with curses
By none whose brains are in their purses;
For quack-quizz'd, generous, queer John Bull,
Thinks no book worthless that is dull;
And who the glorious difference knows
Of Byron's blank, and Noodle's prose?
If Swift was vapid, Hogg is not,
And few read Milton that read Scott;
And Gray is stiff, and Cowper tame;
And Young is well-exchang'd for Grahame;
And beef for kail, and gold for lead;
And wit for Sawney's solid head.
But when the titled donkey frets,
And flaps his two scull-epaulettes,
Rearing, with bray right eloquent,
His fundamental ornament;
So eagle-like the ass appears,
That John Bull's asses, while John stares,
Swear that Jove's bird hath tail, and ears,
And true Byronian voice,—like their's!”
Conceit's the worm that never dies.
54
The fidging crew she ought to flay;
Or dames o' th' Monthly to supply
Meek caudle for grown infancy;
But ne'er will Sawney cease to lie
For Scotland, left he well knows why.
In vain we pummel this true Scot;
For true Scotch merit alters not,
But still, where'er the Scotchman dwell,
Is found unchanged, unchangeable.
Thus Suffolk cheese, hung up to view,
In honour of “thrice-skimm'd sky-blue,”
Can battle with th' inclement sky,
And wind, and rain, and Time defy;
And stones, call'd kanks par excellence,
Will still be kanks, long ages hence.
Empires may fall, and dynasties;
But still the exalted cheese is cheese.
Virtue may wage vain war with fate,
Be hurl'd, unwept, from high estate,
And cease with honour'd names to rank;
But still immortal kank is kank.
And ne'er will Scotland cease to be
The cradle of humility,—
That babe, too pure, too meek, to mend,
And sweet alike at either end;
That blushless babe, which smiles at scorn;
That prudent babe, with nerves of bone;
55
With brazen face, that turns to stone.
Oh, Tweed! thou bourn ne'er pass'd in vain,
Which, pass'd, no Scot will pass again!
Scotland the Scotch, Scots Scotchmen laud,
Where'er they go; while folks abroad
Listen, and ask, with curious air,
What sort of grapes Scotch thistles bear?
And soon no Caledonian fist
Can rub an itching palm or wrist;
But Scotch Reviews will prove to all,
By reasonings philosophical,
That Scotchmen, still to instinct true,
By instinct scratch, as well as boo!
Ah! who like Sawney is respected?
For when was Sawney self-neglected?
And who has seen ‘creation's heir,’
That e'er forgot his placid stare?
Where is the land that doth not know him?
Or would not say ‘Adieu!’ unto him?
And is there aught in slander'd hell
So meek as Maister Sawney's sel'?
The pulpit-de'il must capless stand
When Sawney gets the upper hand.
A spaniel, if not worth a groat,
If rich, he richer would be thought,
And stings the poor with purse-proud scorn,
To prove himself was dunghill born.
56
Climes unco' weel acquaint' wi' Sawney!
Can you believe the news abroad,
That Sawney hath forsworn the road?
Canadians! wont to sweat with fear
Whene'er ye deem'd a Scotchman near!
And cry, ‘Scotch Yankey!’ if ye spied
A brass-hair'd stranger, vulture-ey'd,
With endless smile, and meikle cheek!
Your children need not run and squeak;
Their mothers need not lock the door;
For ne'er will Sawney traavel more.
The Scotch have found, by th' second sight,
That none, born south of Tweed, can write;
And all the fidging race, 'tis said,
Will stay at home, and get their bread
By writing books, with hungry speed,
Which English fools will buy and read.
Good news, if true! received with curses
By none whose brains are in their purses;
For quack-quizz'd, generous, queer John Bull,
Thinks no book worthless that is dull;
And who the glorious difference knows
Of Byron's blank, and Noodle's prose?
If Swift was vapid, Hogg is not,
And few read Milton that read Scott;
And Gray is stiff, and Cowper tame;
And Young is well-exchang'd for Grahame;
57
And wit for Sawney's solid head.
But when the titled donkey frets,
And flaps his two scull-epaulettes,
Rearing, with bray right eloquent,
His fundamental ornament;
So eagle-like the ass appears,
That John Bull's asses, while John stares,
Swear that Jove's bird hath tail, and ears,
And true Byronian voice,—like their's!”
In pleas'd assent, Mac Whisky bow'd,
And, fidging, leftward through the crowd,
With busy grin, and keen small eye,
And insolent humility,
Turn'd on th' inferior fiends his back,
(For he already scorn'd the pack,)
And, with a cringe extremely civil,
Again address'd the master devil:
“Sire! when King Jammy undertook
To have the Greek o' th' holy book
Done into English, verse for verse,
He knew not that the modern erse
And ancient Hebrew speech agree,
Save that the erse is mix'd a wee
Wi' snuff and French; but all allow
The merit of our Hebrew now:
Broad Scotch alone is good in law,
And Johnson's fame's no' worth a straw;
The Southrons like our tongue so vary
Weel, that they burn'd his Dictionary,
And gat a new ane, months ago,
Prented by Ramsay, Edinbro.
And, fidging, leftward through the crowd,
With busy grin, and keen small eye,
And insolent humility,
Turn'd on th' inferior fiends his back,
(For he already scorn'd the pack,)
And, with a cringe extremely civil,
Again address'd the master devil:
“Sire! when King Jammy undertook
To have the Greek o' th' holy book
Done into English, verse for verse,
He knew not that the modern erse
And ancient Hebrew speech agree,
Save that the erse is mix'd a wee
Wi' snuff and French; but all allow
The merit of our Hebrew now:
Broad Scotch alone is good in law,
And Johnson's fame's no' worth a straw;
58
Weel, that they burn'd his Dictionary,
And gat a new ane, months ago,
Prented by Ramsay, Edinbro.
“Sire! th' old Scots were an unclothed nation,
Following th' old Scotchman Aadam's fashion;
And if Scotch wives, in every season,
Go foot-and-leg bare, 'tis with reason.
But, tho' th' old Scots were grim and spare,
(As Scots, that still eat bracken, are,)
'Tis proven yet, by th' unco' wise,
That Arthur's seat was Paradise.
Following th' old Scotchman Aadam's fashion;
And if Scotch wives, in every season,
Go foot-and-leg bare, 'tis with reason.
But, tho' th' old Scots were grim and spare,
(As Scots, that still eat bracken, are,)
'Tis proven yet, by th' unco' wise,
That Arthur's seat was Paradise.
“Sire! Cæsar told the Earl o' Mar
He learn'd of Bruce the art of war.
There was one Mars, too, a brave fellow,
And he had hair of reddish-yellow.
He learn'd of Bruce the art of war.
There was one Mars, too, a brave fellow,
And he had hair of reddish-yellow.
“Sire! Venus was a Highland dowdie;
England invented beef fra' crowdie;
Mean envy of Scotch bracken-wine
Gave France the hint to plant her vine;
The turtle is the Soland gander;
Great Wallace—fidg'd like Alexander;
And—”
England invented beef fra' crowdie;
Mean envy of Scotch bracken-wine
Gave France the hint to plant her vine;
The turtle is the Soland gander;
Great Wallace—fidg'd like Alexander;
And—”
“Thane!” cried Satan, with a sneer,
“As thou'rt the only Scotchman here,
For ever here thou shalt remain;
We'll hang thee on the hammer, Thane!
That all our bashful imps may see
A sample of Scotch modesty.”
“As thou'rt the only Scotchman here,
59
We'll hang thee on the hammer, Thane!
That all our bashful imps may see
A sample of Scotch modesty.”
Then by the ears two giants took him,
And shook,—that is, he dream'd they shook him;
When, lo! appear'd, with shrill sharp squall,
A figure tragi-comical,
Crying, “Ye fiends, your prey resign,
And know the hangman's task is mine!”
At which, in haste, they loos'd their hold,
And fled, while startled Satan growl'd.
'Twas a strange creature; and its face
Was shapen like a fiddle-case,
With centre-bit, by art or nature,
Turn'd t'wards its fundamental feature,
As if it all things did disdain;
A thing with Scotchmen not unusual;
I've seen it oft, and may again;
Feed your Scotch spaniel fat, and you shall.
And shook,—that is, he dream'd they shook him;
When, lo! appear'd, with shrill sharp squall,
A figure tragi-comical,
Crying, “Ye fiends, your prey resign,
And know the hangman's task is mine!”
At which, in haste, they loos'd their hold,
And fled, while startled Satan growl'd.
'Twas a strange creature; and its face
Was shapen like a fiddle-case,
With centre-bit, by art or nature,
Turn'd t'wards its fundamental feature,
As if it all things did disdain;
A thing with Scotchmen not unusual;
I've seen it oft, and may again;
Feed your Scotch spaniel fat, and you shall.
As when a Scotch wife fries chopp'd suet,
With twice-boil'd cabbage added to it,
The frying-pan becomes an ocean
Of stormy trouble and commotion;
So fear, surprise, and indignation,
Fill'd Satan's breast with perturbation.
He, tho' accustom'd to queer phizzes,
Cried, “I ne'er saw a phiz like this is;”
And wonder'd, as the varlet near'd him,
What ape, or cat, had come to beard him.
But who, unterrifi'd, could brook
The creature's hungry lawyer's look?
And—as the other epic poet
Says Hector 'fore Achilles stood,
Asham'd to fly, yet doom'd ‘to go it.’
So Satan paus'd, with freezing blood;
Then thought of all his fields, while burn'd
His gloomy cheek; then, starting, turn'd,
And ran at once, and, with a scream,
Ascending high the hammer-beam,
Sate there astraddle, looking down:
Sad accents from his trouble brake,
While, with big airs, and half a frown,
Th' intruder eyed him as he spake.
APPARITION.With twice-boil'd cabbage added to it,
The frying-pan becomes an ocean
Of stormy trouble and commotion;
So fear, surprise, and indignation,
Fill'd Satan's breast with perturbation.
60
Cried, “I ne'er saw a phiz like this is;”
And wonder'd, as the varlet near'd him,
What ape, or cat, had come to beard him.
But who, unterrifi'd, could brook
The creature's hungry lawyer's look?
And—as the other epic poet
Says Hector 'fore Achilles stood,
Asham'd to fly, yet doom'd ‘to go it.’
So Satan paus'd, with freezing blood;
Then thought of all his fields, while burn'd
His gloomy cheek; then, starting, turn'd,
And ran at once, and, with a scream,
Ascending high the hammer-beam,
Sate there astraddle, looking down:
Sad accents from his trouble brake,
While, with big airs, and half a frown,
Th' intruder eyed him as he spake.
Know'st thou not me? the bitten-biter?
The parson-taught starvation-writer?
Behold my back! 'tis whelk'd for ever
With stripes, for which I thank'd the giver.
And this my creed is—
SATAN.
“No second Milton! one's enough.
No more Macbeths! we're merit-proof.
Shall genius thrive in times like these?
Fred. Schiller ought to have been shot.
Let Wordsworth, unremember'd, rot,
And Southey—hiss'd to death by geese.
No more Macbeths! we're merit-proof.
61
Fred. Schiller ought to have been shot.
Let Wordsworth, unremember'd, rot,
And Southey—hiss'd to death by geese.
“Indignity to foes laid low!
To highest worth the deepest woe!
To a fallen B---t, we decree
The desk again, and Rule of Three;
To a fall'n C---g, sops and ale;
To a starv'd Radical, a jail;
But to a Cæsar, fortune-left,
Once lord of all, of all bereft,
Taunts, and mean odour of a groom,
Long, long, slow torture, hopeless gloom,
The soul's impalement—and a tomb.
To highest worth the deepest woe!
To a fallen B---t, we decree
The desk again, and Rule of Three;
To a fall'n C---g, sops and ale;
To a starv'd Radical, a jail;
But to a Cæsar, fortune-left,
Once lord of all, of all bereft,
Taunts, and mean odour of a groom,
Long, long, slow torture, hopeless gloom,
The soul's impalement—and a tomb.
APPARITION.
So far, well said, such is my creed:
But pray, Sir, Bashfulbrass, proceed!
SATAN.
I know thee now, dread Hack! I see
The Tory of the Whigs in thee:
Add that praise to thy other glories:
A half Whig is the worst of Tories.
But why show here thy inky thumbs,
Where the tax-gatherer never comes,
62
Rack-rented, dread the stern demands
Of want and wealth? No toilworn hands
Are wrung in hopeless pain, no tear
With sweat and blood is mingled here;
No farmer curses crops and fallows,
Nor have we either church or gallows.
Hence, to some glorious starving nation,
And there perform thy operation.
APPARITION.
What! hath dame Godwin found in thee
A learner of her A B C?
SATAN.
Perhaps—But we admire thee, too:
What needs no aid thou hast befriended;
What is most false thou hast prov'd true;
What is most sad thou hast defended;
The detention (and therefore its consequences,) of Napoleon at St. Helena, that weakest act of the weakest of administrations, was defended and justified by the Edinburgh Review, the conductors of which work took most prudent care to publish not one word favourable to the fallen emperor, until they could be of no service to him. What a cordial might a bold truth, applied in time by the Edinburgh Review, have proved to Napoleon on his rock, during the progress of that slow, silent malady, which enabled magnanimous Toryism to stain the name of England for ever!
And what worse could a Tory do?
APPARITION.
Burn Godwin's nonsense.
SATAN.
And read thine?
APPARITION.
True. Read this book, for it is mine:
63
It is a book without a fault,
And season'd with the Attic salt
Of classic Edinbro.
SATAN.
The bible of the Whigs! which shews,
What here and there a scholar knows,
That two and two are four!
APPARITION.
And twice eight, just twelve more.
SATAN.
Ye wise men o' the North Countree!
These pages seem to breathe o' ye!
This blue and yellow livery
Is sweet to fancy's nose!
APPARITION.
Sneer, if thou wilt, at folly's foes:
But we have prov'd, by learning's power,
That two are two, and twice two four.
SATAN.
And that old Adam now and then
Ate, aye, and drank, like other men.
64
Might earn as much as one in twa;
Not that ye plough'd, some years ago,
Earth's last half-rood, where corn would grow;
Not that the book which Malthus wrote,
In loveless blessedness of thought,
Is false, if all things prove it so,
A libel, if it libels woe;
Not that all robb'd toil is paupery;
Not that rag-sprung monoply
Is fertile as the barren wind is;
Not that slave-drivers, in the Indies,
Are meek as beggar-makers, where
They purchase wars, and sell them dear,
Suck blood, till th' pale heart hath not any,
T' imbrute the few, unsoul the many,
And, dup'd and gull'd, to words a thrall,
Find their clear profit loss of all.
APPARITION.
Radical rascal! could I reach thee,
My hangman's whip should better teach thee!
SATAN.
No better wields, or merits more,
That lash than thou, Twice-two-are-Four!
Through twenty years of stormy weather,
Thou and Jack Ketch have march'd together,
(Not pair'd, but match'd, and match'd so well,
That which is greatest few can tell.)
Furnish'd with cords and pens of woe,
By Paper, Rack-rent, Waste and Co.
And hath not that wise firm brought down
The price of souls in every town?
And tortur'd, famish'd, robb'd, belied,
And bow'd to th' dust, more stiff-neck'd pride,
Than all the parsons that e'er pray'd?
Until, at last, with hearts dismay'd,
Your gentlefolks must take the spade
In their own hands, to dig and sow
Fields, that 't were idiocy to plough!
A consummation just! for years
Implor'd, by millions in their tears!
For let the great dogs fight, and then
Starv'd curs may get their bone again.
That lash than thou, Twice-two-are-Four!
Through twenty years of stormy weather,
Thou and Jack Ketch have march'd together,
65
That which is greatest few can tell.)
Furnish'd with cords and pens of woe,
The following letters,
(copied from a provincial newspaper, and written by a plain tradesman,) may serve to show what are probably the opinions, not of a pensioned political parson, or of his interested apes, but of the manufacturing vulgar generally, on certain evils, which, by the inflicters of them, are said to be the effects of over-population, alias paupery, and not of taxation without representation.By Paper, Rack-rent, Waste and Co.
And hath not that wise firm brought down
The price of souls in every town?
And tortur'd, famish'd, robb'd, belied,
And bow'd to th' dust, more stiff-neck'd pride,
Than all the parsons that e'er pray'd?
Until, at last, with hearts dismay'd,
Your gentlefolks must take the spade
In their own hands, to dig and sow
Fields, that 't were idiocy to plough!
A consummation just! for years
Implor'd, by millions in their tears!
For let the great dogs fight, and then
Starv'd curs may get their bone again.
Thus preach'd grave Satan, perch'd on high.
But the whip-wielder to reply
Thenceforth disdain'd. In scorn he turn'd,
And foot to rump, Mac Whisky spurn'd;
Then, frowning on th' affrighted man,
This sharp, dry, hard, Scotch speech began.
But the whip-wielder to reply
Thenceforth disdain'd. In scorn he turn'd,
And foot to rump, Mac Whisky spurn'd;
Then, frowning on th' affrighted man,
This sharp, dry, hard, Scotch speech began.
“Half-witted, and degenerate Scot!
Thou shame of Scotland, though a sot!
What dost thou here, 'mid spectre-owls
Of buried Southrons, that had souls?
They will not buy what souls decry;
The fiends would rather sell than buy.
What! to Newcastle bring thy coals?
And swap Scotch-whinstone for hell fire?
Is this a mart for nerves of wire?
Go, sell thy wares—or die unsarkit—
Where genuine kank will find a market.
Why should a Scot come so far North?
The De'il was once a shark in Forth,
And all his imps ken what is what:
Sapscull! be taught—take this! and that!”
Thou shame of Scotland, though a sot!
What dost thou here, 'mid spectre-owls
Of buried Southrons, that had souls?
66
The fiends would rather sell than buy.
What! to Newcastle bring thy coals?
And swap Scotch-whinstone for hell fire?
Is this a mart for nerves of wire?
Go, sell thy wares—or die unsarkit—
Where genuine kank will find a market.
Why should a Scot come so far North?
The De'il was once a shark in Forth,
And all his imps ken what is what:
Sapscull! be taught—take this! and that!”
He said, and with his nine-tail'd cat
(Which, turnkey-like he wielded well,)
Assail'd the Scot, from whom a yell
Arose, at which the prince of hell,
Like a flower withering on the stalk,
Trembled: he shook the hammer-balk,
While terror brought the ruby meek
Of evening to his dusky cheek;
Alas! how chang'd from him who warr'd
On heaven, and heaven's Eternal dar'd.
(Which, turnkey-like he wielded well,)
Assail'd the Scot, from whom a yell
Arose, at which the prince of hell,
Like a flower withering on the stalk,
Trembled: he shook the hammer-balk,
While terror brought the ruby meek
Of evening to his dusky cheek;
Alas! how chang'd from him who warr'd
On heaven, and heaven's Eternal dar'd.
Thus, second-sight of Thule cring'd,
When Twaddle, prince of Carmen, fring'd
The prophet's wig with whipcord grey,
And lash'd sour asses' milk to whey!
When Twaddle, prince of Carmen, fring'd
The prophet's wig with whipcord grey,
And lash'd sour asses' milk to whey!
But there may be imagin'd pain
Too great for nature to sustain;
And poor Mac Whisky, pale as lead,
Awaked, in diuretic dread,
Tho' wet, quite sound in wind and limb;
No fiend had dar'd to injure him:
They had not singed a single hair,
But he had rubb'd his knuckles bare.
Wondering to find himself beside
The heath-bell sweet, on Hallam wide,
He started up, and sought in fear
His slice o' th' Sheffield atmosphere,
Which finding safe, well pleas'd he smil'd;
Then—grunting in his iron gizzard,
“Boo, ‘lofty’ Scot! starvation is hard!”
He with a true Scotch tune beguil'd
His not unsocial way.
'Twas now the dewy close of day;
The throstle sung his love-taught lay,
While flow'd in gold the rill;
The toil'd horse graz'd ungirth'd and free;
And, from his throned royalty,
The sun stoop'd to the hill.
And, lo! along the moorland ridge,
The mountain cotter's smoke ascends!
Lo, e'er the Loxley's one-arch'd bridge,
A giant's shadow bends!
But when from cave and copse outflew
The owl, on felon wing;
When purple meeken'd into blue
O'er plaintive Riviling;
When twilight, from the Druid grove,
Repaid the woodbine with a tear,
And linger'd fondly o'er her love,
Because the parting time was near;
He then, with Nature, clos'd his eye,
His cares, hopes, dreams, at once, forgot,
And, at the flask and porridge-pot,
Rested with all his company.
Too great for nature to sustain;
67
Awaked, in diuretic dread,
Tho' wet, quite sound in wind and limb;
No fiend had dar'd to injure him:
They had not singed a single hair,
But he had rubb'd his knuckles bare.
Wondering to find himself beside
The heath-bell sweet, on Hallam wide,
He started up, and sought in fear
His slice o' th' Sheffield atmosphere,
Which finding safe, well pleas'd he smil'd;
Then—grunting in his iron gizzard,
“Boo, ‘lofty’ Scot! starvation is hard!”
He with a true Scotch tune beguil'd
His not unsocial way.
'Twas now the dewy close of day;
The throstle sung his love-taught lay,
While flow'd in gold the rill;
The toil'd horse graz'd ungirth'd and free;
And, from his throned royalty,
The sun stoop'd to the hill.
And, lo! along the moorland ridge,
The mountain cotter's smoke ascends!
Lo, e'er the Loxley's one-arch'd bridge,
A giant's shadow bends!
But when from cave and copse outflew
The owl, on felon wing;
68
O'er plaintive Riviling;
When twilight, from the Druid grove,
Repaid the woodbine with a tear,
And linger'd fondly o'er her love,
Because the parting time was near;
He then, with Nature, clos'd his eye,
His cares, hopes, dreams, at once, forgot,
And, at the flask and porridge-pot,
Rested with all his company.
THE END.
| [Scotch Nationality]: A vision | |