WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.
SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See agèd Winter, mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
Sits meek Content, with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care!
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share.
ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.
FRIEND of the poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake! the meikle Deil
Wi' a' his witches
Are at it, skelpin, jig and reel,
In my poor pouches.
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it:
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted
I'd bear't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,
And by fell death was nearly nicket:
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turned a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll take a care o't
A tentier way:
Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!
HUMID seal of soft affections,
Tenderest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connexions,
Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day!
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When lingering lips no more must join,
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling and sincere as thine!
SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT,
DEC. 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES.
STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
"Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So, sought a poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my prologue business slily hinted.
'Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes,
'I know your bent-these are no laughing times:
Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears-
Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears-
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?'
I could no more-askance the creature eyeing, 'D'ye think,' said I, 'this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant, gloomy Master Poet!'
Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fixed belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;
I also think-so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoyed.
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doomed to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measur'st in desperate thought—a rope-thy neck-
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap:
Wouldst thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.
To sum up all, be merry, I advise;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise.
INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toastHere's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!-That we lost, did I say? nay, by heaven, that we found For their fame it shall last while the world goes
The next in succession, I'll give you-The King!
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, Our Free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution;
And longer with politics not to be crammed,
Be Anarchy cursed, and be Tyranny damned;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!
FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE.
THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolved, with soul resigned;
Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have, a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine and worship here.
ALL devil as I am, a damnèd wretch,
A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere, though unavailing sighs,
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
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