Events of O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space, the year What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish Empire's tint a head, And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead: The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guidwife's wee birdie cocks ; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil; The tither's dour-has nae sic breedin, But better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit, For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel, An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonie lassies, dight your e'en, For some o' you hae tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gie again.
Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For E'nburgh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now hast got thy Daddy's chair;
Nae handcuff'd, mizzl'd, half-shackl'd Regent, The fate But, like himsel, a full free agent,
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as you can.
ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS OSWALD OF AUCHEN- CRUIVE
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation! mark, Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonour'd years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
View the wither'd Beldam's face; Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace? Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows; Pity's flood there never rose,
See these hands ne'er stretched to save Hands that took, but never gave: Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes,
(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends ;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies;
'Tis thy trusty quondam Mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate; She, tardy, hell-ward plies.
And are they of no more avail, Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year? In other worlds can Mammon fail, Omnipotent as he is here!
O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched Vital Part is
The cave-lodged Beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.
ODE ON THE DEPARTED REGENCY BILL
DAUGHTER of Chaos' doting years, Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears, Whether thy airy, unsubstantial shade (The rights of sepulture now duly paid) Spread abroad its hideous form On the roaring civil storm, Deafening din and warring rage Factions wild with factions Or under-ground, Deep-sunk, profound,
Among the demons of the earth,
With groans that make
The mountains shake,
Thou mourn thy ill-starred, blighted birth; Or in the uncreated Void,
Where seeds of future being fight, With lessen'd step thou wander wide,
To greet thy Mother-Ancient Night. And as each jarring, monster-mass is past, Fond recollect what once thou wast: In manner due, beneath this sacred oak, Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke ! By a Monarch's heaven-struck fate, By a disunited State,
By a generous Prince's wrongs, By a Senate's strife of tongues, By a Premier's sullen pride, Louring on the changing tide; By dread Thurlow's powers to awe Rhetoric, blasphemy and law; By the turbulent ocean— A Nation's commotion, By the harlot-caresses Of borough addresses, By days few and evil, (Thy portion, poor devil!) By Power, Wealth, and Show, (The Gods by men adored,) By nameless Poverty,
(Their hell abhorred,)
By all they hope, by all they fear, Hear! and Appear!
Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power! Nor, grim with chained defiance lour: No Babel-structure would I build
Where, order exil'd from his native sway, Confusion may the regent-sceptre wield, While all would rule and none obey:
Go, to the world of man relate The story of thy sad, eventful fate; And call presumptuous Hope to hear And bid him check his blind career; And tell the sore-prest sons of Care, Never, never to despair!
Paint Charles's speed on wings of fire, The object of his fond desire, Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand:
Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band; Mark how they lift the joy-exulting voice, And how their num'rous creditors rejoice; But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise, Cry CONVALESCENCE! and the vision flies.
Then next pourtray a dark'ning twilight gloom, Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn, While proud Ambition to th' untimely tomb By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is
Paint ruin, in the shape of high D[undas] Gaping with giddy terror o'er the brow; In vain he struggles, the fates behind him press, And clam'rous hell yawns for her prey below: How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the skies!
And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise!
Again pronounce the powerful word; See Day, triumphant from the night, restored.
Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men ! (Thus ends thy moral tale,)
Your darkest terrors may be vain,
Your brightest hopes may fail.
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