But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld,
Wha likes a dorty maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted wean that tarrows at its meat,"
That for some fecklesso whim will orpP and greet:
The lave laugh at it till the dinner's past,
And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast,
Or scart anither's leavings at the last.
Fy, Jenny think, and dinna sit your time.
Jenny. I never thought a single life a crime.
Peggy. Nor I: but love in whispers lets us ken
That men were made for us, and we for men.

Jenny. If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell,
For sic a tale I never heard him tell.

He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause:
But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws?
Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.
They're fools that slav'ry like, and may be free;
The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me.
Peggy. Be doing your ways: for me, I have a
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind. [mind
Jenny. Heh! lass, how can ye lo'e that rattle-
skull ?

A very deil, that ay maun have his will!
We soon will hear what a poor feightan life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife.
Peggy. I'll rin the risk; nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
"Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lay my head.
There he may kiss as lang as kissing 's good,
And what we do there's nane dare call it rude.
He's get his will; why no? 'tis good my part
To give him that, and he'll give me his heart.
Jenny. He may indeed for ten or fifteen days
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco fraise,
And daut ye baith afore fowk and your lane:
But soon as your newfangleness is gane,
He'll look upon you as his tether-stake,
And think he's tint his freedom for your sake.
Instead then of lang days of sweet delyte,
Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte :
And may be in his barlichoods', ne'er stick
To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.
Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as that want
pith to move

My settled mind; I'm o'er far gane in love.
Patie to me is dearer than my breath,

But want of him I dread nae other skaith".
There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green
Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een.
And then he speaks with sic a taking art,
His words they thirle like music through my heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at little fears that fright the lave.
Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill,

He reads feil books that teach him meikle skill;
He is--but what need I say that or this,
I'd spend a month to tell you what he is!

1 Pettish.-m Spoilt child.-n Pettishly refuses its food.Silly.-P Fret.- Stares. Cross-moods. Harm.t Many.

In a' he says or does there's sic a gate,
The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate;
His better sense will lang his love secure:
Ill-nature hefts in sauls are weak and poor.

Jenny. Hey, "bonny lass of Branksome!" or 't
Your witty Pate will put you in a sang. [be lang,
O 'tis a pleasant thing to be a bride!
Syne whinging gets about your ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous" din:
To make them brats then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae wean fa's sick, and scads itself wi' brue',
Ane breaks his shin, anither tines his shoe : [hell,
The "Deil gaes o'er John Wabster":" hame grows
When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell.

Peggy. Yes, it's a heartsome thing to be a wife, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife. Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight

To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.
Wow, Jenny! can there greater pleasure be,
Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee;
When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish,
Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss?
Can there be toil in tenting day and night
The like of them, when love makes care delight?
Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your heads ill chance should begg'ry draw:
There little love or canty cheer can come
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom3.
Your nowt may die; the speaty may bear away
Frae aff the howms your dainty rucks of hay;
The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wethers, and may rot your ewes;
A dyvour2 buys your butter, woo', and cheese,
But or the day of payment breaks and flees;
With gloomin' brow the laird seeks in his rent,
'Tis no to gie, your merchant's to the bent;
His honour maunna want, he poinds your gear;
Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye
Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; [steer!—
Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife.

Peggy. May sic ill luck befa' that silly she,
Wha has sic fears, for that was never me.
Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best ;
Nae mair's required-let heaven make out the rest.
I've heard my honest uncle aften say,
That lads should a' for wives that's vertuous pray;
For the maist thrifty man could never get
A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let :
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part
To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart.
Whate'er he wins I'll guide with canny care.
And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,
For healsome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.
A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo',
Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due ;
Syne a' behind 's our ain.-Thus without fear,
With love and rowth we thro' the warld will steer;
And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

u Troublesome.- Scalds itself with broth.- A Scotch proverb when all goes wrong. Empty -y Land-flood.Bankrupt. It is no slight calamity.-b Plenty.

Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green,

With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een, Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy. Nae mair of that :-dear Jenny, to be free,

There's some men constanter in love than we :
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
Has blest them with solidity of mind;
They'll reason caulmly, and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile:
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart.
At ev'n, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his will:
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane :
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething-pot 's be ready to take aff;
Clean hag-abage I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him with the best we can afford:
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny. A dish of married love right soon grows
cauld,

And dozins down to nane, as fowk grow auld.
Peggy. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er

find

The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie,
Than aught in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and
bride;

Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading branches are increased,
And in their mixture now are fully blest :
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast ;
That in return defends it frae the wast.
Sic as stand single, (a state sae liked by you,)
Beneath ilk storm frae every airth maun bow.
Mates. -d Huckaback. —e
f Dwindles.

Linen caps or coifs.8 Quarter.

Jenny. I've done,-I yield, dear lasssie; I maun yield,

Your better sense has fairly won the field.
With the assistance of a little fae

Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner!-Jenny, that's no fair,

That ye'll no let the wee thing take the air: Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well 's we can, Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.

Jenny. Anither time's as good; for see the sun Is right far up, and we're not yet begun To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt, Come up the burn, she'll gie us a wicked rant; But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind; For this seems true-nae lass can be unkind. [Exeunt.

SONG.

FAREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I have mony a day
To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more, [been:
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And not for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind:
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd,
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd:
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse,
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee;
And losing thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And, if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

SEE, a new progeny descends

From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends:

O Muse! attend my call!
To one of these direct thy flight,
Or, to be sure that we are right,
Direct it to them all.

O Clio! these are golden times!
I shall get money for my rhymes;

And thou no more go tatter'd :
Make haste then, lead the way, begin,
For here are people just come in,

Who never yet were flatter'd.

But first to Carteret fain you'd sing ;
Indeed he's nearest to the King,

Yet careless how you use him;
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays;
He will but promise if you praise,
And laugh if you abuse him.

Then (but there's a vast space betwixt)
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next,
Stiff in his popular pride :

His step, his gait, describe the man ;
They paint him better than I can,

Waddling from side to side.

Each hour a different face he wears,
Now in a fury, now in tears,

Now laughing, now in sorrow;
Now he'll command, and now obey,
Bellows for liberty to-day,

And roars for power to-morrow.
At noon the Tories had him tight,
With staunchest Whigs he supp'd at night,

Each party tried to 'ave won him ;
But he himself did so divide,
Shuffled and cut from side to side,

That now both parties shun him.

See yon old, dull, important Lord,
Who at the long'd-for money-board
Sits first, but does not lead :
His younger brethren all things make;
So that the Treasury's like a snake,
And the tail moves the head.
Why did you cross God's good intent?
He made you for a President;

Back to that station go;
Nor longer act this farce of power,
We know you miss'd the thing before,
And have not got it now.

See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair,
Britain's two thunderbolts of war,

Now strike my ravish'd eye:

But oh their strength and spirits flown,
They, like their conquering swords, are grown
Rusty with lying by.

Dear Bat, I'm glad you've got a place,

And since things thus have changed their face, You'll give opposing o'er :

'Tis comfortable to be in,

And think what a damn'd while you've been,

Like Peter, at the door.

See who comes next-I kiss thy hands,
But not in flattery, Samuel Sandys;
For since you are in power,

That gives you knowledge, judgment, parts,
The courtier's wiles, the statesman's arts,
Of which you'd none before,

When great impending dangers shook
Its state, old Rome dictators took
Judiciously from plough:

So we, (but at a pinch thou knowest)
To make the highest of the lowest,

Th' Exchequer gave to you.

When in your hands the seals you found,
Did they not make your brains go round?
Did they not turn your head?

I fancy (but you hate a joke)
You felt as Nell did when she woke

In Lady Loverule's bed.

See Harry Vane in pomp appear,
And, since he's made Vice-Treasurer,

Grown taller by some inches;
See Tweedale follow Carteret's call ;
See Hanoverian Gower, and all

The black funereal Finches.

And see with that important face
Berenger's clerk, to take his place,

Into the Treasury come :
With pride and meanness act thy part,
Thou look'st the very thing thou art,
Thou Bourgeois Gentilhomme.

Oh, my poor Country! is this all
You've gain'd by the long-labour'd fall
Of Walpole and his tools?
He was a knave indeed-what then?
He'd parts-but this new set of men
A'nt only knaves, but fools.
More changes, better times this isle
Demands: Oh! Chesterfield, Argyll,
To bleeding Britain bring 'em :
Unite all hearts, appease each storm;
'Tis yours such actions to perform,

My pride shall be to sing 'em.

[*This is sorry stuff, but Williams did not always write this way. Witness his famous quatrain on Pulteney: When you touch on his Lordship, &c. Leave a blank here and there in each page, To enrol the fair deeds of his youth! When you mention the acts of his ageLeave a blank for his honour and truth!]

OLD Battle-array, big with horror, is fled,

And olive-robed Peace again lifts up her head. Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace; Was ever a nation so blessed as this?

AIR.

When summer suns grow red with heat,

Tobacco tempers Phoebus' ire;

When wintry storms around us beat,
Tobacco cheers with gentle fire.
Yellow autumn, youthful spring,
In thy praises jointly sing.

RECITATIVO.

Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,
Fraught with Tobacco's balmy sweets;
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's power,
And Boreas is afraid to roar,

AIR.

Happy mortal! he who knows Pleasure which a Pipe bestows; Curling eddies climb the room, Wafting round a mild perfume.

RECITATIVO.

Let foreign climes the wine and orange boast,
While wastes of war deform the teeming coast;
Britannia, distant from each hostile sound,
Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown'd:
E'en restless faction finds itself most free,
Or if a slave, a slave to liberty.

AIR.

Smiling years that gaily run
Round the zodiac with the sun,
Tell if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.
British sons no longer now
Hurl the bar, or twang the bow,
Nor of crimson combat think,
But securely smoke and drink.

CHORUS.

Smiling years, that gaily run Round the zodiac with the sun, Tell if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.

IMITATION II.-AMB. PHILIPS.

VIRG.

Tenues fugit ceu fumus in auras.
LITTLE tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men ;

Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay

(Little cricket full of play),
Can afford his tube to feed

With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.

[* Browne was an entertaining companion when he had drunk his bottle, but not before; this proved a snare to him, and he would sometimes drink too much; but I know not that he was chargeable with any other irregularities. He had those among his intimates, who would not have been such had he been otherwise viciously inclined; the Duncombes, in particular, father and son, who were of unblemished morals.-CowPER, Letter to Rose, 20 May, 1789.]

[ Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, had no good original manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator; for the following are rather imitations, than ridiculous parodies.— GOLDSMITH.]

IMITATION III*.-JAMES THOMSON.

-Prorumpit ad æthera nubem Turbine, fumantem piceo.

VIRG.

Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou
My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrined,
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song.

O THOU, matured by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care,
And at each puff imagination burns :
Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires
Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glazed magnific o'er, I grasp, I fill.
From Patotheke with pungent powers perfumed,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbibed
Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires; I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and joy into the Muse's bowl.

[* "Browne," said Pope to Spence, "is an excellent copyist, and those who take it ill of him are very much in the wrong." This appears to have been said with an eye to Thomson, who, soon after the "Pipe" appeared, published in the papers of the day what Armstrong has called "a warm copy of verses' by way of reply? These we have the good luck to recover; they are altogether unnoticed and unknown, and as such, not from their merit. may find a place here.

THE SMOKER SMOKED t.

Still from thy pipe, as from dull Tophet, say,
Ascends the smoke, for ever and for aye?

No end of nasty impoetic breath?

Foh dost thou mean to stink the town to death?
Wilt thou confound the poets, in thine ire,
Thou man of mighty smoke but little fire!
Apollo bids thee from Parnassus fly,

Where not one cloud e'er stain'd his purest sky,
Hence! and o'er fat Bootia roll thy steams;
Nor spit and spawl about the Muses' streams.
These maids celestial, like our earthly fair,
Could never yet a filthy smoker bear.
Were to the dusky tribe Parnassus free,

What clamb'ring up, what crowding should we see?
Against the tuneful god what mortal sin?

Good lord! what parsons would come bustling in?
What foggy politicians, templars, cits!
What coffee-house, what ale-house muddy wits?
Take this plain lesson, imitating Zany!
First learn to write, before you write like any.
Be cautious, mortal! whom you imitate,
And wise, remember vain Salmoneus' fate;
Through Grecian cities he, through Elis, drove;
And, flashing torches, deem'd himself a Jove:
Madman to think for thunder thus to pass
His chariot rattling o'er a bridge of brass.
Wrathful at this, from deep surrounding gloom,
Th' almighty father seized the forky doom;
(No firebrand that, emitting smoky light,
But with impatient vengeance fiercely bright ;)
He seized, and hurl'd it on the thundering elf,
Who straight vile ashes fell, his thunders and himself.
[t Gent.'s Mag. for 1736, p. 743.]

IMITATION IV.-DR. YOUNG.

Bullatis mihi nugis

Pagina turgescat-dare pondus idonea fumo.-PERS.
CRITICS Avaunt! Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam.
And you, court-insects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire,
So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff;
Yet all their claim to wisdom is--a puff:
Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid :
Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town ;
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe,-no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but show their ignorance; can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree!
The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, though it makes him- -spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious stink;

She will not smoke (ye gods !)—but she will drink:
And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, pipes are used by that vile creature Man :
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame:
Fame, of our actions universal spring,

For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke-everything.

BLEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To Templars modesty, to parsons sense :
So raptured priests, at famed Dodona's shrine,
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good.
Inspired by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What though to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcised by kings.