Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer* of Charles
The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,
Bold Scrimgeourt follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now death and hell engulf thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,

While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James?
Dear to his country by the names

Friend, patron, benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save!
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!
And Stewart, bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;

And Melville melt in wailing!
The executioner of Charles I. was masked.
Graham, Marquis of Montrose.
§ Stewart of Hillside.

+ Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.

How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!

And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all-prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,
A cool spectator purely!

So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And sober chirps securely.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE

HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

First published in the Scots Magazine for February, 1818.
LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and A-

-s were right

To keep the Highland hounds in sight,

I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas

They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed-
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d

-d! what right hae they

To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, near!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an'
geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack

Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,

At my right han' assign'd your seat
"Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,—
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,

A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;

An' till ye come-Your humble servant,

BEELZEBUB.

TO JOHN TAYLOR.*

WITH Pegasus upon a day

Apollo weary flying,

Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,

Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead
Pity my sad disaster;

My Pegasus is poorly shod

I'll pay you like my master.

ROBERT BURNS.

There verses were written, to induce a blacksmith to proceed at once to sharpen his horse's shoes,' as the roads had become slippery with ice. The blacksmith is said to have lived thirty years after to say that he had never been weei paid but ance, and that was by a Poet, who pail him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse.'

EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA.

The Esopns of this epistle was Williamson, an actor, and the
Maria to whom it is addressed was Mrs. Riddel.

FROM those drear solitudes and frowzy cells,
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells;
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,
And deal from iron hands the spare repast;
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin,
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ;
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,
Resolve to drink, nay half to whore, no 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!"

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear!

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale

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 prying eye.

Bless'd Highland bonnet!" Once my proudest

dress,

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press.
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war.