That if ye'er served but wi' an egg,
(And that's puir picking,)
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,
And charges chicken!
'And wha may ye be," gin ye speer,
'That brings your auld-warld clavers here?' Troth, if there's onybody near
That kens the roads,
I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer,
He kens Meg Dodds.
I came a piece frae west o' Currie :
And, since I see you're in a hurry,
Your patience I'll nae langer worry,
But be sae crouse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray,1
That keeps this house.
Plays are auld-fashion'd things, in truth,
And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth;
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth,
Or want of dramock.
Although they speak but wi' their mouth,
Not with their stamock.
dress, and nobody was admitted who had not a white neckcloththen considered an indispensable insignium of a gentleman.]
Mr Wm. Murray became manager of the Edinburgh Theatre in 1815.
ye take care of a' folk's pantry; And surely to hae stooden sentry
Ower this big house, (that's far frae rent-free,) For a lone sister,
Is claims as gude's to be a ventri
How'st ca'd-loquister.
Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care,
The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair;
For gin they do, she tells you fair,
And without failzie,
As sure as ever ye sit there,
THE sages for authority, pray, look
Seneca's morals, or the copy book-
The 'sages to disparage woman's power,
Say, beauty is a fair, but fading flower ;-
I cannot tell I've small philosophy-
Yet, if it fades, it does not surely die,
But, like the violet, when decay'd in bloom,
Survives through many a year in rich perfume.
Witness our theme to-night, two ages gone,
A third wanes fast, since Mary fill'd the throne.
Brief was her bloom, with scarce one sunny day,
"Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay:
But when, while Scottish hearts and blood you boast,
Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost?
"I recovered the above with some difficulty. I believe it was never spoken, but written for some play, afterwards withdrawn, in which Mrs H. Siddons was to have spoken it in the character of Queen Mary."-Extract from a Letter of Sir Walter Scott to Mr Constable, 22d October 1824.
O'er Mary's memory the learned quarrel,
By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel,
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her name
The constant burden of his fault'ring theme;
In each old hall his grey-hair'd heralds tell
Of Mary's picture, and of Mary's cell,
And show-my fingers tingle at the thought-
The loads of tapestry which that poor Queen wrought
In vain did fate bestow a double dower
Of ev'ry ill that waits on rank and pow'r,
Of ev'ry ill on beauty that attends-
False ministers, false lovers, and false friends.
Spite of three wedlocks so completely curst,
They rose in ill from bad to worse, and worst,
In spite of errors-I dare not say more,
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his claymore.
In spite of all, however humours vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mary,
That unto Scottish bosoms all and some
Is found the genuine open sesamum !
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you forgive me-who, demure and shy,
Gorge not each bate, nor stir at every fly,
Must rise to this, else in her ancient reign
The Rose of Scotland has survived in vain,
FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. GEORGE SCOTT.1
To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale.
Art thou a parent? Reverence this bier,
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here.
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start,
With opening talents and a generous heart,
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine own?
Lo! here their end-a monumental stone.
But let submission tame each sorrowing thought,
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight was fought.
1 [This young gentleman, a son of the Author's friend and relation, Hugh Scott of Harden, Esq., became Rector of Kentis beare, in Devonshire, in 1828, and died there the 9th June 1830. This epitaph appears on his tomb in the chancel there.]
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