Oft at his strains, all natural though rude, breast. Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green. The plague of locusts they secure defy, For in three hours a grasshopper must die. No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, But the cameleon, who can feast on air. No birds, except as birds of passage, flew, No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here*. Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan. No flow'rs embalm'd the air, but one white rose, Which on the tenth of June† by instinct blows, By instinct blows at morn, and, when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. One, and but one poor solitary cave, Too sparing of her favours, nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. Their snares without entangling briers spread, And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's head, Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose, Thistles now held more precious than the rose. All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan, Were form'd to loathe, and to be loathed by man, Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight, Creatures, which when admitted in the ark, Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad; There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies; In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl; [* The severity of Satire is in its truth; and however treeless her clime may be, or cold her hills, or naked her inhabitants-her streams are as clear as crystal, and dance, and bicker to a music all their own.] [t The Pretender's birth-day.] What, Sawney, if by shepherd's art we try Saw. Ah, Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis, To think of songs at such a time as this. Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks, Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks, Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south, And we forget to live from hand to mouth, Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart The songs of gladness with an aching heart. Jock. Still have I known thee for a silly swain: Of things past help, what boots it to complain? Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite; No sky is heavy, if the heart be light : Patience is sorrow's salve; what can't be cured, So Donald right areeds, must be endured. Saw. Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now; How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? how, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs, which you now apply? Jock. O she was bonny! All the Highlands round Was there a rival to my Maggy found? More precious (though that precious is to all) Than the rare med'cine which we brimstone call, Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, Which in I know not what far country grows, Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue, A lass so fair should ever prove untrue. Saw. Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear, Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? Cursed be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain, In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain. Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead. Jock. Full sorely may we all lament that day; For all were losers in the deadly fray, Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains; Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride, Two in the field, and three on gibbets died: Ah! silly swains, to follow war's alarms! Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms! Saw. Mention it not-There saw I strangers clad In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid, Saw the ferrara too, our nation's pride, Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side. There fell our choicest youth, and from that day Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay; Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five. [survive, Thus plain'd the boys, when from her throne of turf, With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf, Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well, Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell, Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes, Pent in this barren corner of the isle, A mass till the last moment left behind, There, like the sons of Israel, having trod, For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase; | SONG. THE PARTING KISS. ONE kind kiss before we part, Yet, yet weep not so, my love, All my soul, and all my heart, ROBERT LLOYD. ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the masters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the " Actor," the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his "Rosciad." He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Colman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet; and those companions left him to moralise on the instability of convivial friendships. Churchill, however, adhered to him, and gave him pecuniary relief to prevent him from starving in prison. During his confinement he published a volume of his poems; wrote a comic opera, "The Capricious Lovers ;" and took a share in translating the Contes Moraux of Marmontel. When the death of Churchill was announced to him, he exclaimed, "I shall follow poor Charles!" fell into despondency, and died within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom he was betrothed, died of a broken heart for his loss *. CHIT-CHAT. AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS. Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dear? She fancied you would not come down, Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear Mrs. B. Lard! my dear, There is such scrouging and such squeeging, Mrs. S. Lard! ma'm, I left it all to him, He took this house.-This house! this den.- Mrs. B. Mrs. S. Jacky, come here, There's a good boy, look up, my dear. "Twas not papa we talk'd about. -Surely he cannot find it out. Mrs. B. See how the urchin holds his hands! Upon my life he understands. -There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come, Will Jacky have a sugar-plum? Mrs. S. This person, madam, (call him so [*To Lloyd and Churchill, Mr. Southey has given, in his Life of Cowper, an undue though interesting importance. Lloyd's best productions are his two Odes, to Obscurity and Oblivion, written in ridicule of Gray; and in which the elder Colman had an uncertain share. ] For at a tavern he will spend And then the queen— Mrs. S. Mrs. B. Lard! we've no time for talking now, Mrs. B. That clouded silk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with such, But you've a charming taste in dress. What might it cost you, madam? Mrs. S. Guess. Mrs. B. Oh! that's impossible-for I Mrs. S. I never love to bargain hard, Mrs. B. Indeed you bargain'd with success, And then 'tis sloped with such an air. Mrs. S. I'm glad you think so,—Kitty, here, -There, go to Kitty-there's a man. Mrs. B. Oh lard! Pray go before. Madam, pray. Mrs. B. Well then, for once, I'll lead the way. Mrs. S. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! How shall we do to get along? What will become of us ?-look here, Mrs. B. Don't be afraid, my dear, come on; Why don't you see the guards are gone? Mrs. S. Well, I begin to draw my breath; Mrs. B. Come you from Palace-yard, old dame! Mrs. S. Can you direct us, dame ? Endeavour. Troy could not stand a siege for ever. Mrs. S. Perdigious! I can hardly stand, -Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off my back. Lard, I shall faint-O lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. God bless me-I have dropp'd my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man? Mrs. S. You're very kind, sir; truly few Are half so complaisant as you. This obligation to repay, And you'll be always sure to meet A welcome, sir, in-Lard! the street To tell him where I live, I vow. -Mercy! what's all this noise and stir ? Man. No-don't you hear the people shout? "Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out. Mrs. B. So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels? 'Tis nothing else—a barge on wheels. Man. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate, Who'd undertake (and no rare thing) Mrs. S. Lard! what are those two ugly things There with their hands upon the springs, Filthy, as ever eyes beheld, With naked breasts, and faces swell'd? To put such things to fright the queen? Man. Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society, Tritons, which in the ocean dwell, And only rise to blow their shell. Mrs. S. Gods d'ye call those filthy men! Mrs. B. Ay, there he goes, pray heaven bless Why don't they go to sea again? him! Scotchman. Which is the noble earl of Bute? Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute. For he's the Laird of aw our clan, Troth, he's a bonny muckle man. Man. Here comes the coach, so very slow As if it ne'er was made to go, In all the gingerbread of state, Mrs. S. Upon my word, its monstrous fine! It puts one's eyes out as it goes. Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, Mrs. B. And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings? Creatures, which seldom come a-shore, For show, they wear the yellow hue, Mrs. S. Lord bless us ! what's this noise about, Lord, what a tumult and a rout! How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot! I cannot stay, indeed, not I, If there's a riot I shall die. Let's make for any house we can, Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear, I thought I should have died with fear. 1 |