more: Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. "Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, By barber woven, and by barber sold, Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. The hero of the mimic scene, no more, I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms, In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, And steal from me Maria's eye. Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, For other wars, where he a hero shines ; The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, made For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes, And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose! In durance vile here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep! That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, And vermin'd Gipsies litter'd heretofore. Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour; Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? worse; The vices also, must they club their curse? | Or must no tiny sin to others fall, Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, Sonnet, ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL of GLENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794 (279) No more, ye warblers of the wood-no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul: [dant stole, Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verMore welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? [friend! Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies! Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier: The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, Is in his "narrow house" for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. Impromptu ON MRS RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY. (280) OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd"What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe ? My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, To counterbalance all this evil Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! ; That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.' ""Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. Verses to Miss Graham HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal The Vowels, A TALE. ; 'Twas where the birch and sounding thong And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows; own, Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne; In rueful apprehension enter'd O, Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew! As trembling U stood staring all aghast, Verses to John Rankine, ANE day, as Death, that grusome carle, On Sensibility. Address SPOKEN BY 'MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT (282), STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was printed; rhymes, ever And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted. "Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of [times: "I know your bent-these are no laughing Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears Dissolve in sighs-and sentimental tears, With laden breath, and solemn-rounded sentence, [Repentance; Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land ?" TO MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, MRS. DUNLOP, of Dunlop. SENSIBILITY how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell: But distress with horrors arming, Thou hast also known too well! Fairest flower, behold the lily, Blooming in the sunny ray: Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, See it prostrate on the clay. Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys: Hapless bird! a prey the surest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, Finer feelings can bestow ; Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure. Thrill the deepest notes of woe. Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man aliveTo make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch! Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. Thou other man of care, the wretch in love Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope thy neck Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Address to the Shade of Thomson, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, WHILE virgin spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between: While Summer with a matron grace Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade: While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed: While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. Ballads on Mr. Beron's Elections. [BALLAD FIRST] (284.). WHOM will you send to London town, Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, The honest man, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, For a' that, and a' that, For weel he's worthy a' that. For a' that, and a' that, [BALLAD SECOND.] Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin' there; For Murray's light-horse are to muster, And oh, how the heroes will swear! And there will be Murray commander, And there will be black-lippit Johnnie (285), The deil gets na justice ava’; We'll e'en let the subject alane. (286) But, Lord, what's become o' the head? And there will be Cardoness (287), Esquire, Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; A wight that will weather damnation, For the devil the prey will despise. And there will be Douglasses doughty (288), New christ'ning towns far and near; Abjuring their democrat doings, By kissing the o' a peer; And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, Whose honour is proof to the storm, To save them from stark reprobation, He lent then his name to the firm. But we winna mention Redcastle, An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. And where is our king's lord lieutenant, Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? The billie is gettin' his questions, To say in St. Stephen's the morn. And there will be lads o' the gospel, Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true: And there will be Buittle's apostle, Wha's more o' the black than the blue; And there will be folk from St. Mary's, A house o' great merit and note, The deil ane but honours them highlyThe deil ane will gie them his vote! And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, And also Barskimming's guid knight, Will mingle the Maxwells in droves; Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, Our land who wi' chapels has stor❜d; [BALLAD THIRD.] An Excellent New Sung, TUNE-Buy broom besoms, WHA will buy my troggin (290), Buy braw troggin, Frae the banks o' Dee; Who wants troggin Let him come to me. There's a noble Earl's Fame and high renown (291), It's thought the gudes were strown Here's the worth o' Broughton (292), In a needle's ee: Here's a reputation Tint by Balmaghie. (293) Buy braw troggin, &c. Here's an honest conscience Might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o' TinwaldSo was never worn. (294) Buy braw troggin, &c. |