Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry Part 7

With pa.s.sion, zeal, and punch misled, Why goad me on to strife?

Why send me to a restless bed And disappointed wife?

This my reward! and this from you!

Is't thus you Bowman [25] treat, Who eats more toads than _you know who_ Each night did strawberries eat?

Did I not mount the dun-drawn chaise, And sweat for many a mile?

And gave his Grace's skill much praise, _Grinning a ghastly smile!_

Did I not elsewhere risk my bones, My Lord-Duke's freaks took pride in?

Did I not trot down hills of Stones, And call it pleasant riding?

Did I not all your feats proclaim, Nor once from duty shrink?

In flattery I sunk my fame, A Bowman e'en in drink.

Did I not oft my conscience force, Against its dictates swear?

Have I not prais'd Lord Georg's horse?

Nay, e'en your Lordship's mare?

Did I not oft, in rain and wind, O'er hills, thro' vallies roam, When wiser folk would lag behind, And Spaniels staid at home?

Have I not with your natives fed, The worst of all my labours; And ventur'd both my ears and head Amongst your scalping neighbours?

Not Quin's more blest with Calipee, Fitzherbert in his puns, Lord John in contradicting me, Lord Frederick with his nuns,

Than I am blest in Shakespear's muse!

Each drop within my standish, Each drop of blood for him I'll lose, As firm as any Ca'ndish.

As Whig you gain the world's applause, For once a Tory shine, A Tory once in Shakespeare's cause, And feel his right divine!

Attack my wife, my patent tear, Do deeds without a name!

Burn, kill, or ravish, Lord! but spare, Oh, spare my Shakespeare's fame!

Did not Dean Barker [26] wisely preach, Opinion may be sin?

Did not his sermon wisely teach To cleanse ourselves within?

From infidelity awake!

Oh, melt your heart of stone; Conceal your errors for my sake, Or mend them for your own.

[Footnote 24: William Fitzherbert, Esq., of Tissington, M.P. for Derby.]

[Footnote 25: The name of a character in "Lethe."]

[Footnote 26: The Rev. William Barker, M.A., Dean of Raphoi He died about 1777.]

SATYR ON THE SCOTS.

BY MR. CLEVELAND.

Come, keen _Iambicks_, with your Badgers' Feet, And Badger-like bite till your Teeth do meet; Help ye, Tart Satyrists, to imp my Rage, With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.

But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quote The Name of Scot without an Antidote, Unless my Head were red, that I might brew Invention there that might be Poison too.

Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal Note Disgorges Halters, as a Juggler's Throat Does Ribbons; could I in Sir _Empyrick's_ Tone Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction; Or roar like _Marshal_, that _Geneva_ Bull, h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation a Pulpit full: Yet to express a _Scot_, to play that Prize, Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice.

Before a _Scot_ can properly be curst, I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.

_Scots_ are like Witches; do but whet your Pen, Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.

Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake, I'll bait my _Scot_ so, yet not cheat your Eyes; A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.

No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation Fosters no Venom since that _Scots'_ Plantation; Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain, Since they came in England has Wolves again.

Nature her self does _Scotch_-men Beasts confess, Making their Country such a Wilderness; A Land that brings in Question and Suspence G.o.d's Omnipresence but that _Charles_ came thence, But that _Montrose_ and _Crawford's_ Royal Band Aton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land.

Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots, There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots, As in a Picture where the Squinting Paint Shews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint; He that Saw h.e.l.l in's Melancholy Dream, And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme, Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright, Had he view'd Scotland had turn'd Proselyte.

A Land where one may pray with curst Intent; Oh, may they never suffer Banishment!

Had _Cain_ been _Scot_, G.o.d would have chant'd his Doom, Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.

Like _Jews_ they spread, and as Infection fly, As if the Devil had Ubiquity.

Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defie This or that Place, Rags of Geography.

They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all; _Scotland's_ a Nation Epidemical.

And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode, How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad; To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug, Or which of the _Dutch_ States a double Jug Resembles most in Belly or in Beard; The Card by which the Mariners are Steer'd.

No! The Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat; Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat.

Nature with _Scots_ as Tooth-drawers has dealt, Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt.

Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame The Stubborn _Scot_: A Prince that would reclaim Rebels by yielding does like him. or worse, Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse.

Was it for this you left your leaner Soil, Thus to lard _Israel_ with _Egypt's_ Spoil?

Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts!

How a _Scotch_ Stomach and no Meat converts!

They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took Religion for their Seamstress and their Cook.

Unmask them well; their Honours and Estate, As well as Conscience, are Sophisticate.

Shrive but their t.i.tles, and their Money poise; A Laird and Twenty Pence,[27] p.r.o.nounc'd with Noise, When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go, And a good sober Two-pence, and well so.

Hence then,'you Proud Imposters, get you gone, You _Picts_ in Gentry and Devotion, You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a Race Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace.

Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use.

The _Indian_ that Heaven did forswear Because he heard some _Spaniards_ were there.

Had he but known what _Scots_ in h.e.l.l had been, He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between.

My Muse has done. A voider for the Nonce; I wrong the Devil should I pick the Bones.

That Dish is his, for when the _Scots_ decease, h.e.l.l, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.

A _Scot_, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose, Drops into _Stix_, and turns a _Soland_ Goose. [28]

[Footnote 27: Ten pence Scots was a penny English.]

[Footnote 28: Compare with this the first of the two political squibs published in the Aungervyle Reprints Series, 2.]

THE Ma.r.s.eILLAISE.

[Footnote: Written and composed by Roger de Lisle. This translation has been attributed to Lord Auckland.]

Ye sons of France, awake to glory; Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!

Your children, wives, and grandsires h.o.a.ry, Behold their tears, and hear their cries!