Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it—'tis Decorum!
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,
A time, when rough rude Man had naughty ways:
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet!
Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are
Now, well-bred men—and you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third, our last, our best, our
dearest :
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,
Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear Admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-Immortal Love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs-
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares?
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon :
Ah! ça ira! the Majesty of Woman!
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT
NIGHT, DECEMBER 4TH, 1793, AT THE
THEATRE, DUMFRIES
STILL anxious to secure your partial favor,
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 ever printed;
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted.
'Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes,
'I know your bent-these are no laughing times:
Can you-but, Miss, I own I have my fears-
Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears?
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance?
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?'
I could no more! Askance the creature eyeing :'D'ye think,' said I, 'this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!'
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief That Misery's another word for Grief.
I also think (so may I be a bride!)
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To 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,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies, laugh e'en at thyself;
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder: that's your grand specific.
To sum up all be merry, I advise ;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise!
To the Right Honorable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right Honorable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M'Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing-Liberty.
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 Applecross 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 Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin ;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomerie, fearless, lead them;
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed)
Poor dunghill sons of dirt an' mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier owre 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 honor o' the nation?
They, an' be damn'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! Glengary, hear!
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 hullions to the birses.
Yet while they 're only poind and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit.
strip; slovens;
bristles;
distrained; robbed
|