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And still, in spite of all thy care,
Methinks I know that figure bold, And stalwart limbs of giant mould ! 'Tis he—I know his ruddy face, My tried, staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase. His snore is loud, his slumber deep, Yet dreams are with him in his sleep, And Fancy's visions oft recall The merry Hunt, and jovial Hall, And oft replace before his sight The bustle of tomorrow's fight. In swift succession o'er his brain Come fields of corn, and fields of slain ; And, as the varying image burns, Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns; The five-barred gate, and muddy ditch, Smolensko, and “the spotted bitch,” Parisian puppies-English dogs, “Begar” and “damme,”—beef and frogs, In strange, unmeaning medley fly Before poor Nimrod’s wandering eye. He speaks! what murmuring, stifled sounds Burst from his throat : “Why, madam! zounds! Who scared me with that Gorgon face? I thought I saw my Lady Chase.”
And thou, too, Clavering—Humor's son! Made up of wisdom and of fun! Medley of all that's dark and clear, Of all that's foolish, all that's dear, Tell me, what brings thee here to die, Thou prince of eccentricity ? Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day He cared so little for his play, And wore so grave and prim a look, And cried so when he missed his book, That aunts were eager to presage The glories of his riper age; And fond mamma in him foresaw The bulwark of the British law, And Science, from her lofty throne, Looked down and marked him for her own. Ah! why did flattery come at school To tinge him with a shade of fool ! Alas! what clever plans were crossed Alas! how wise a judge was lost ! Without a friend to check or guide, He hurried into fashion's tide, He aped each folly of the throng, Was all by turns, and nothing long; Through varying tastes and modes he flew, Dress-boxing-racing-dice—Virtu; Now looking blue in sentimentals, Now looking red in regimentals, Now impudent, and now demure, Now blockhead, and now connoisseur,
Now smoking at “the Jolly Tar,"
Allan N'Gregor! from afar I see him,'midst the ranks of war That all around are rising fast From slumbers that may be their last; I know him by his Highland plaid, Long borne in foray and in raid, His scarf, all splashed with dust and gore, His nodding plume, and broad claymore; I know him by that eagle eye, Where foemen read their destiny; I know him by that iron brow That frowns not, burns not, quails not, now, Though life and death are with the ray That redly dawns upon to-day. Woe to the wretch whose single might Copes with dark Allan in the fight; He knows not mercy—knows not fear; The pibroch has to Allan's ear A clearer and a sweeter note Than mellow strains that blithely float From lyre or lute, in courtly throng, Where Beauty smiles upon the song. Of artful wiles against his foe Nothing he knows, or cares to know; Far less he recks of polished arts, The batteries in the siege of hearts. And hence the minions of the ton, While fair and foolish dames look on, Laugh at Old Allan's awkward bow, His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they ?—when sounds the hollow drum,
Close to the Clansman's side is seen