ET. 37.] THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.

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THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.

Allusion, has several times been made to the Duke of Queensberry, as a personage held in hatred by the poet. The two following stanzas were probably a part of the election-ballad of 1790, but omitted from the copy sent by the author to Mr. Graham.

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace-
Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?

His forbears' virtues all contrasted
The very name of Douglas blasted
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But he has superadded more,

ancestors

And sunk them in contempt;

Follies and crimes have stained the name, But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From aught that's good exempt.

VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.

In 1795, the Duke of Queensberry stripped his domains of Drumlanrig, in Dumfriesshire, and Neidpath, in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to furnish a dowry for the Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter, and to whom, by a singular piece of good-fortune on her part, Mr. George Selwyn, the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, under the same (probably equally mistaken) impression. It fell to the lot of Wordsworth to avenge on the "degenerate Douglas" his leaving old Neidpath SO beggared and outraged." The vindication of nature in the case of Drumlanrig became a pleasing duty to Burns. In one of his rides, he inscribed the following verses on the back of a window-shutter in an inn or toll-house near the scene of the devastations.

66

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,

Ae smiling simmer-morn I strayed,

And traced its bonny howes and haughs,1

hollows

Where linties sang and lambkins played, linnets

I sat me down upon a craig,

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream ;

When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the genius of the stream.

1 Low lands on the margin of a river (the New England "interval.")

ET. 37.] THE WOODS OF DRUMLANRIG.

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave:
"And came ye here, my son," he cried,

"To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid.

193

soughs

"There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool,
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;

"When glinting, through the trees, appeared The wee white cot aboon the mill,

And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, chimney smoke
That slowly curled up the hill.

But now the cot is bare and cauld,
Its branchy shelter's lost and gane,

And scarce a stinted birk is left

To shiver in the blast its lane."

alone

"Alas!" said I, "what ruefu' chance

Has twined ye o' your stately trees? deprived Has laid your rocky bosom bare?

Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes? clothing Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs,
Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?"

"Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; "It blew na here sae fierce and fell; And on my dry and halesome banks

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!" the genius sighed,

As through the cliffs he sank him down, "The worm that gnawed my bonny trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.'

"1

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT.2

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,

1 This piece was printed, probably for the first time, in a private book, entitled Original Poems on Several Occasions, 2 vols., Greenock, 1817, being chiefly the production of Collector Dunlop of that town, and only ten copies being printed, to be given to friends.

2 December 4, 1795.

ET. 37.] ADDRESS FOR MISS FONTENelle.

195

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 Repent

ance;

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;

That so much laughter, so much life enjoyed.