The virtuous partner of my nuptial bands
Appear'd a widow to my frantic sight;
My little prattlers, lifting up their hands,
Beckon me back to them, to life, to light.
I come, ye spotless sweets! I come again;
Nor have your tears been shed, nor have ye knelt in vain. CCIV. JOHN HOME, 1722-1808.
My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flock; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son myself at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord;
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon which rose last night round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety and for succour. I alone,
With bended bow and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, and marked
The road he took, then hasted to my friends;
Whom with a troop of fifty chosen men
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in truimph, I disdained
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps;
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers,
And heaven-directed came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
CCV. CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY, 1724-1805.
THE WATER EXCURSION.
I never as yet could his reason explain,
Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain;
For sure such confusion was never yet known;
Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown:
While his lordship, embroidered and powdered all o'er,
Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore:
How the Misses did huddle, and scuddle, and run;
One would think to be wet must be very good fun:
For by waggling their tails, they all seemed to take pains
To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains;
And 'twas pretty to see, how like birds of a feather,
The people of quality flocked all together;
All pressing, addressing, caressiug, and fond,
Just the same as those animals are in a pond:
You've read all their names in the news, I suppose,
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:
There was Lady Greasewrister,
And Madam Van-Twister,
Her ladyship's sister:
Lord Cram and Lord Vulture,
Sir Brandish O'Culter,
With Marshal Carouzer,
And old Lady Mouzer,
And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzmowzer;
Besides many others who all in the rain went,
On purpose to honour this great entertainment :
The company made a most brilliant appearance,
And ate bread and butter with great perseverance:
All the chocolate too, that my lord set before 'em,
The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum.
Soft musical numbers were heard all around,
The horns and the clarion's echoing sound.
Sweet were the strains, as odorous gales that blow
O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow.
CCVI. W. MASON, 1725–1797.
Mark Ambition's march sublime
Up to Power's meridian height,
While pale-eyed Envy sees him climb,
And sickens at the sight.
Phantoms of danger, death, and dread
Float hourly round Ambition's head;
While Spleen, within his rival's breast,
Sits brooding on her scorpion nest.
Happier he, the peasant, far,
From the pangs of passion free,
That breathes the keen yet wholesome air
Of rugged penury.
He, when his morning task is done,
Can slumber in the noon-tide sun;
And hie him home at evening's close
To sweet repast and calm repose.
He, unconscious whence the bliss,
Feels and owns in carols rude,
That all the circling joys are his,
Of dear Vicissitude.
From toil he wins his spirits light,
From busy day the peaceful night;
Rich from the very want of wealth,
In heaven's best treasures, Peace and Health.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
I've seen the smiling
Of Fortune beguiling ;
I've felt all its favours, and found its decay :
Sweet was its blessing,
Kind its caressing;
But now 'tis fled-fled far away.
I've seen the forest
Adorned the foremost
With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay ;
Sae bonnie was their blooming!
Their scent the air perfuming!
But now they are withered and weeded away.
I've seen the morning
With gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day
I've seen Tweed's silver streams,
Shining in the sunny beams,
Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.
Oh, fickle Fortune,
Why this cruel sporting?
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sous of a day?
Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,
Nae mair your frowns can fear me;
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
CCVIII. ARTHUR MURPHY, 1727-1805.
1. ACTORS.
Oh! little do all silly people know
What dreadful trials actors undergo.
Myself, who most in harmony delight,
Am scolding here from morning until night.
Then take advice from me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal milliners, ye apron'd kings:
Young men beware, and shun your slippery ways;
Study arithmetic, and burn your plays.
And you, ye girls, let not our tinsel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your maddening brain
Be timely wise; for, oh! be sure of this,
A shop with virtue is the height of bliss.
There's not a villain, not a tool of power,
But, silence interest, extinguish fear,
And he will prove benevolent to man.
The generous heart does more; will dare do all
That honour prompts.
CCIX. Dr THOMAS PERCY, 1728-1811.
SONG: OH NANCY.
O Nancy! wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer drest in silken sheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare;
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wast fairest of the fair?
O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a look behind?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
Ɔ can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wast fairest of the fair?
O Nancy! canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang
of woe
Say, should disease or pain befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wast fairest of the fair?
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear.
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wast fairest of the fair?
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