Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,
To win immortal honor.
M'Murdo and his lovely spouse,
(The enamor'd laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the loves and graces:
She won each gaping burgess' heart,
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part
Among their wives and lasses.
Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps,
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming thunder;
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory's dark designs,
And bared the treason under.
In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig,' who set at naught
The wildest savage Tory:
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground,
High-waved his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.
Miller brought up the artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
'Mid Lawson's3 port entrench'd his hold,
And threaten'd worse damnation.
To these what Tory hosts opposed,
With these what Tory warriors closed,
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.
What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate
Amid this mighty tulzie!
Grim Horror girn'd-pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shored,
And hell mix'd in the brulzie.
Provost Staig of Dumfries.-2 Sheriff Welsh.-3 Lawson, a wine merchant
As Highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing rattle:
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods,
Such is the rage of battle!
The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
Before the approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.
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 Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham,
Auld Covenanters shiver.
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now death and hell engulf thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high forever!)
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.
Oh 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!
1 The executioner of Charles I. was masked.-2 Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee. -3 Graham, Marquis of Montrose.
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!
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.
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 Hancock, 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 honor o' the nation?
They an' be d-d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, 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 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 labor;
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' gray 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 yon;
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,
TO JOHN TAYLOR.1
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.
EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA.
The Esopus 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;
1 These 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 "weel paid but ance, and that was by a Poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse."
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