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