 | [Scotch Nationality]: A vision |  |
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.
| [Scotch Nationality]: A vision | |