Miller brought up th' artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!

While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
Mid Lawson's port entrenched his hold,
And threatened 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 rushed 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 grinned-pale Terror roared,
As Murther at his thrapple shored,

And Hell mixed in the brulzie !

As highland crags by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurled down wi' crashing rattle:
As flames amang 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 th' 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 murderer of Charles
The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules its bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,
Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Grahame,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wronged Montrose!
While death and hell engulf thy foes,
Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

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!

O 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!

What Whig but wails the 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!

Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, 'O Prince, arise!
Thy power is all prevailing.'

For your poor friend, the bard, afar
He hears, and only hears, the war,
A cool spectator purely :
So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely.

Third.

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg,
About to beg a pass for leave to beg:
Dull, listless, teased, dejected, and deprest,
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;)
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail?
(It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,)
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed,
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?
Thou, Nature! partial Nature! I arraign;
Of thy caprice maternal I complain.

The lion and the bull thy care have found,

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell,
Th' envenomed wasp, victorious, guards his cell;
Thy minions kings defend, control, devour,
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power;
Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure;
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure;
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,
e priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug;

E'en silly woman has her warlike arts,

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.
But, oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard,
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the bard!
A thing unteachable in worldly skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still;
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun:
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur ;-
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears the unbroken blast from every side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics!-appalled I venture on the name,
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame:
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes!
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung,
By blockheads' daring into madness stung;
His well-won bays, than life itself more dear,
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear:
Foiled, bleeding, tortured, in th' unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on through life;
Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired,
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead, e'en resentment, for his injured page,

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage.

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased, For half-starved snarling curs a dainty feast,

By toil and famine worn to skin and bone,
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
Oh, Dulness! portion of the truly blest!
Calm sheltered haven of eternal rest!
Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams.
If mantling high she fills the golden cup,
With sober selfish ease they sip it up:
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,
They only wonder 'some folks' do not starve,
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog,
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope,
And through disastrous night they darkling grope,
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear,
And just conclude that 'fools are Fortune's care.'
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle Muses' madcap train,

Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;

In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe,
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear!
Already one stronghold of hope is lost,
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust;
(Fled, like the sun eclipsed as noon appears,
And left us darkling in a world of tears :)
Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish prayer!—
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare!
Through a long life his hopes and wishes crown;
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down!
May bliss domestic smooth his private path;