But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.
LINES WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S
GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give;
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.
ONE Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell,
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well,
In respect for the love and affection he'd shown her,
She reduc'd him to dust, and she drank up the powder.
But Queen Netherplace, of a diff'rent complexion,
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction,
Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender pretence,
Not to show her respect, but-to save the expense.
WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon
The Lord their God, his Grace.2
There's naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger;
If Providence has sent me here,
'Twas surely in an anger.
INSTEAD of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast,-
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost:
That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, that we found;
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.
The next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution.
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd,
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny d—'d;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!
VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE.
I AM a keeper of the law
In some sma' points, although not a’,
Some people tell me gin I fa',
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma’,
Breaks a' thegither.
I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say owre far for thrice,
• Given on occasion of the celebration of the naval victory, April 12, 1782.
Yet never met with that surprise
That broke my rest,
But now a rumour's like to rise,
A whaup's i' the nest.
ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF
LORD GALLOWAY.
WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit, Galloway, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind!
ON THE SAME.
No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.
ON THE SAME.1
BRIGHT ran thy line, O Galloway,
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
So ended in a mire!
TO THE SAME, ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT.
SPARE me thy vengeance, Galloway,
In quiet let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.
1 These were some of the satirical fruits of the Heron contest.
VERSES TO J. RANKINE.
AE day, as Death, that grusome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie1 motley squad,
And monie a guilt-bespotted lad;
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles2 in a halter;
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches,
He mutters, glowrin at the b-s,
"By G- I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
Without, at least, ae honest man,
To grace this d―d inferual clan."
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
L—G—!” quoth he, “I have it now,
There's just the man I want, i' faith,"
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.
EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, ON BEING APPOINTED
TO THE EXCISE.
SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,
Och, hon! the day!
That clartie barm should stain my laurels ;
But-what'll
These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans,
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!
ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE
REV. DR. B'S VERY LOOKS.
THAT there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny :
They say their master is a knave—
And sure they do not lie.
IN politics if thou wouldst mix,
And mean thy fortunes be;
Bear this in mind,-be deaf and blind,
Let great folks hear and see.
ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE.
HERE lie Willie Michie's banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schoolin' o' your weans,
For clever Deils he'll mak them!
LINES WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER OF YARICO.
KEMBLE, thou cur'st
Of Moses and his rod;
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief
The rock with tears had flow'd.
I MURDER hate by field or flood,
Tho' glory's name may screen us;
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,
Life-giving war to Venus.
The deities that I adore
Are social Peace and Plenty,
I'm better pleased to make one more,
Than be the death of twenty.
|