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“ Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand; Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle, Unstock'd my pastures, and untilld my land;

And bollo'd.-“ Ma'am that is not what I ail. Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen!"The sole consumers of my good broadcloths “ Happy?” said Peg; “ What for d've want to Happy ?Why, cursed war and racking tax

ken? Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.”

Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, “ In that case, signior, I may take my leave;

Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh.”— I came to ask a favour—but I grieve”

“ What say you to the present ?”-“ Meal's sae “ Favour ?” said John, and eyed the Sultaun liard,

dear, It's my belief you come to break the yard !

To mak'their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner, “ The devil take the shirt,” said Solimaun, Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner.” “ I think my quest will end as it began.With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;

Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,

“ Ye'll no be for the linen then !” said Peg. “ Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.

XX. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well.” Now, for the land of verdant Erin, “ Kiss and be d-d," quoth John," and go to hell!” The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,

The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, XVII.

The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg, For a long space had John, with words of thunder, Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg

Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under, When the blitbe bagpipe blew-but, soberer now, Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduiy, She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow. Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,

Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,

A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
Yet once a-month her house was partly swept, His landlord, and of middle-men two brace,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept. Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place;
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws

His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation, His meal was a potato, and a cold one;
She now was grown amenable to laws,

But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
A quiet soul as any in the nation;

In the round world was not the match of Pat. The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.

XXI John Bull, wliom, in their years of early strife,

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,

Which is with Paddy still a jolly day: Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour, When mass is ended, and his load of sins Who look’d to the main chance, declined no labour, Confess'd, and Mother Church bath from her Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,

binns And was d-d close in making of a bargain.

Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,

Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! XVIII.

To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,

And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. And with decorum curtsy'd sister Peg;

“ By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, (She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,

“ That ragged fellow is our very man!
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.) Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,
She bade him “ Sit into the fire," and took

But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook;
Ask'd him “ about the news from Eastern parts;

XXII.
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts ! Shilela their plan was wellnigh after baulking,
If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper, (Much less provocation will set it a-walking,)
And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper ;-

But the odds that foil'd Hercules foild Paddy Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park

Whack; Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark? They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd himIf ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinnin',

Alack ! I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen.”

Up-bubboo! Paddy had not a shirt to his

back !!! XIX.

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle

shame, In search of goods lier customer to nail,

Went back to Serendib as sad as he cainc.

Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well-graced parts Mr. Kemble's Farewell address, May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,

Not quite to be forgotten, even when
ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.

You look on better actors, younger men :
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt

Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget,
1817

O, how forget how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!

How oft around your circle this weak hand
As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground, Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand,

Till the full burst of inspiration came, Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,

Those hours must live-and all their charms are yours. Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour for ever past,

O favour'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms, And that these valued plaudits are my last.

For manly talent, and for female charms, Why should we part, while still some powers remain, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, That in your service strive not yet in vain ?

What fervent benedictions now were thine! Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,

But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, And sense of duty fire the fading eye;

When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all the wrongs of age remain subdued

And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ?

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL.
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renewd, and will not last;

Lines,
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,

1817.
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy;
Till every sneering youth around enquires,

When the lone pilgrim views afar “ Is this the man who once could please our sires?” The shrine that is his guiding star, And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,

With awe his footsteps print the road To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.

Which the loved saint of yore has trod. This must not be ;-and higher duties crave,

As near he draws, and yet more near, Some space between the theatre and the grave,

His dim eye sparkles with a tear; That, like the Roman in the Capitol,

The Gothic fane's unwonted show, I may adjust my mantle ere I fall :

The choral hymn, the tapers' glow, My life’s brief act in public service flown,

Oppress his soul; while they delight The last, the closing scene, must be my own.

And chasten rapture with affright.

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH,

1 These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, to deliver his farewell.” .

" Mr. Kemble delivered called the "Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was Ballantyne and Co., at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr. evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. James Ballantyne says, “ The character fixed upon, with His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to rewhich he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of tire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he Bevere cold for a few days before, but on this memorable finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his dropped upon his professional life for ever." mind. - He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, 'determined to leave behind him the 2 These lines were first printed in “The Forget-Me-Not, for most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown,' 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the au benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817 ; but reached her dience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they too late for her purpose. In a letter which inclosed them, ceased —were resumed-rose again - were reiterated and the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, the day on which they were sent—that he thought the idea and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth, (the better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him,) of their adding perhaps "a littie sait to the bill."

No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day-
All these endured no favour claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown,

The westland wind is hushi and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;
Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin’d pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,-
Are they still such as once they were ?

Or is the dreary change in me!

We too, who ply the Thespian art,
Oft feel such bodings of the heart,
And, when our utmost powers are strain’d,
Dare hardly hope your favour gain’d.
She, who from sister climes has sought
The ancient land where Wallace fought ;-
Land long renown'd for arms and arts,
And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts;-)
She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task
To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain’d and tuneless chord,

How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

The Monks of Bangor's March.

The Sun upon the Tieirdlaw Hill.

AIR-" Ymdailh Jionge."

1817.

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S WELSH

MELODIES.

[“Scott's enjoyment of his new territories was, how

1817. ever, interrupted by various returns of his cramp, and the depression of spirit which always attended, in his case, the use of opium, the only medicine that seemed ETHELFRID or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, hao. to have power over the disease. It was while strugg

ing besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a Briling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this

tish Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the autumn, that he composed the following beautiful neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in proverses. They mark the very spot of their birth,

cession, to pray for the success of their countrymen.

But the British being totally defeated, the heathen vienamely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshiels Loch, from which Mel.

tor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their rose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick

monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide

is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to hure range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's

been played at their ill-omened procession. hand."-Life, vol. v., p. 237.) AIR-" Rimin aluin 'stu mo run."

When the heathen trumpet's clang

Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The Veiled nun and friar grey

words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies, March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye; [1822.)

High their holy anthem sounds,

Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

Floating down the silvan Dee, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

O miserere, Domine!

1 “O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms."

Lines wrillen for Mr. J. Kemble.

9 « Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks, who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air." --GEORGE THOMSON.

On the long procession goes,

[Sır Walter's companion on this escursion was Car. Glory round their crosses glows,

tain, now Sir Adam Ferguson.-See Life, vol. v., p. And the Virgin-mother mild

234.]
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,

From Rob Rop.
O miserere, Domine !

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Sad over earth and ocean sounding,

And England's distant cliffs astounding, Letter

Such are the notes should say

How Britain's hope, and France's fear,
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH,

Victor of Cressy and Poitier,
DRUMLANRIG CASTLE,

In Bourdeaux dying lay.
Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817.
From Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond are “ • Poitiers, by the way, is always spelled with an s.
sleeping-

and I know no reason why orthography should give From Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean is sweep- place to rhyme.'”

ingFrom Largs, where the Scotch gave the Northmen a

“ Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said, drilling

“ And let the casement be display'd, From Ardrossan, whose harbour cost many a shil

That I may see once more ling

The splendour of the setting sun From Old Cumnock, where beds are as hard as a Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, plank, sir

And Blaye's empurpled shore." From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanqubar,

«« Garonne and sun is a bad rhyme. Why, Frank, This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor. you do not even understand the beggarly trade you

W.S. have chosen.'

1 William of Malmsbury says, that in his time the extent ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the deso. quantum vix alibi cernas." lation occasioned by the massacre ;-—" tot semiruti parietes

“ Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep,

“ The library at Osbaldistone Hall was a gloomy His fall the dews of evening steep,

room," &c.
As if in sorrow shed.
So soft shall fall the trickling tear,

(2.)-CHAP. XIII.
When England's maids and matrons hear Dire was his thought, who first in poison steep d
Of their Black Edward dead.

The weapon form’d for slaughter-direr his,

And worthier of damnation, who instillid “ And though my sun of glory set,

The mortal venom in the social cup,
Nor France nor England shall forget

To fill the veins with death instead of life.
The terror of my name;

Anonymous.
And oft shall Britain's heroes rise,
New planets in these southern skies,

(3.)-CHAP. XXII.
Through clouds of blood and flame."

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here is the « A cloud of flame is something new-Good-mor- Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,

place row, my masters all, and a merry Christmas to you !-- Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Why, the bellman writes better lines.'”

Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,
Chap. ii.

Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff,
Ere yet ’tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,

The desperate revelries of wild despair, (2.)—TRANSLATION FROM ARIOSTO.

Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds

That the poor captive would have died ere prac. 1817.

tised,
Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

The Prison, Scene ïïi. Act i. “ Miss VERNON proceeded to read the first stanza, which was nearly to the following purpose:"

(4.)--CHAP. XXVII.

Far as the eye could reach no tree was seen, Ladies, and knights, and arms, and love's fair Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green; flame,

No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; Deeds of emprize and courtesy, I sing;

No bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo; What time the Moors from sultry Africk came,

No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, Led on by Agramant, their youthful king

Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here. He whom revenge and hasty ire did bring

Prophecy of Famine. O'er the broad wave, in France to waste and war; Such ills from old Trojano's death did spring,

(5.)--CHAP. XXXI. Which to avenge he came from realms afar,

“ Woe to the vanquish'd !” was stern Brenno's And menaced Christian Charles, the Roman Emperor.

word, Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall sound,

When sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallie swordIn import never known in prose or rhyme,

“Woe to the vanquish'd !” when his massive blade

Bore down the scale against her ransom weigh’d,
How He, the chief of judgment deem'd profound,
For luckless love was crazed upon a time-

And on the field of foughten battle still,
Who knows no limit save the victor's will.

The Gaulliad. «« There is a great deal of it,' said she, glancing along the paper, and interrupting the sweetest sounds which mortal ears can drink in; those of a youthful

(6.)-CHAP. XXXII. poet's verses, namely, read by the lips which are

And be he safe restored ere evening set, dearest to them."

Or, if there's vengeance in an injured heart, Chap. xvi. And power to wreak it in an arm'd hand, Your land shall ache for't.

Old Play (3.)-MOTTOES.

(7.)-CHAP. xxxvi. (1.)-CHAP. X.

Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest, In the wide pile, by others heeded not,

Like the shroud of the dead on the mountain's cold Hers was one sacred solitary spot.

breast; Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves contain, To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply, For moral hunger food, and cures for moral pain. And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.

Anonymous.

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