Have neither blankets nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too :
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado."
Wooed, and married and a',
Married, and wooed, and a',
And was she nae very weel off,
That was wooed, and married, and a' ?
Out spake the bride's father,
As he cam in frae the pleugh:
Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter,
And ye'se get gear eneugh!
The stirk stands i' the tether,
And our braw bawsint yade,
Will carry ye hame your corn-
What wad ye be at, ye jade?
Out spake the bride's mither,
"What deil needs a' this pride?
I had nae a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride:
My gown was linsey-woolsey,
And ne'er a sark ava:
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa."
Out spake the bride's brither,
As he cam in wi' the kye:
"Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I :
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife:
Gin I canna get a better,
I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life."
CXLII. REV. J. S.
TO HIS FALSE MISTRESS.
Wonder not, faithless woman, if you see,
Yourself so changed, so great a change in me.
With shame I own it, I was once your slave,
Adored myself the beauties which I gave;
For know, deceiv'd deceitful, that 'twas I
Gave thy form grace, and lustre to thine eye:
Thy tongue, thy fingers I their magic taught,
And spread the net in which myself was caught.
So pagan priests first form and dress the wood,
Then prostrate fall before the senseless God.
But now, curst woman, thy last sentence hear:
I called thy beauty forth, I bid it disappear.
I'll strip thee of thy borrowed plumes: undress,
And show thee in thy native ugliness.
Those eyes have shone by me, by me that chin
The seat of wanton Cupids long has been:
Ye fires, go out-ye wanton Cupids, fly-
Of every beam disarm her haggard eye:
'Tis I recall ye; my known voice obey-
And nought of beauty but the falsehood stay.
CXLIII. ROBERT BLAIR.
See yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work
Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
And buried midst the wreck of things which were:
There lie interred the more illustrious dead.
The wind is up: hark how it howls! Methinks
Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary:
Doors creak, and windows clap, the night's foul bird
Rock'd in the spire screams loud; the gloomy aisles
Black plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of scutcheon
And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound
Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
The mansions of the dead. Roused from their slumbers,
In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
Grin horrible, and obstinately sullen
Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night.
Again the screech-owl shrieks: ungracious sound!
I'll hear no more; it makes one's blood run chill.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!
To him that is at ease in his possessions!
Who, counting on long years of pleasure here,
Is quite unfurnished for that world to come!
In that dread moment, how the frantic soul
Raves round the wall of her clay tenement,
Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help,
But shrieks in vain! how wistfully she looks
On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer, yet a little longer,
Oh, might she stay to wash away her stains,
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood; and every groan
She heaves is big with horror; but the foe,
Like a stanch murderer, steady to his purpose
Pursues her close through every lane of life,
Nor misses once the track, but presses on;
Till forced at last to the tremendous verge,
At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.
Sure, 'tis a serious thing to die, my soul!
What a strange moment it must be, when near
Thy journey's end, thou hast the gulf in view!
That awful gulf no mortal e'er repassed
To tell what's doing on the other side.
Nature runs back and shudders at the sight,
And every lifestring bleeds at thoughts of parting!
For part they must; body and soul must part;
Fond couple! linked more close than wedded pair.
This wings its way to its Almighty_source,
The witness of its actions, now its Judge;
That drops into the dark and noisome grave,
Like a disabled pitcher, of no use.
CXLIV. CHRISTOPHER PITT.
RULES FOR PREACHING.
Some easy subject choose, within your power, Or you can never hold out half an hour. One rule observe: this Sunday split your text; Preach one part now, and t' other half the next. Speak, look, and move, with dignity and ease; Like mitred Secker, you'll be sure to please. But, if you whine like boys at country schools, Can you be said to study Cambray's rules 2
Begin with care, nor like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing stumbling style,
"Whoever with a piercing eye can see
Through the past records of futurity"-
All gape-no meaning-the puff'd orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour.
Truth and the text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal dames insipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, and coffee, are no more.
His arguments in silly circles run
Still round and round, and end' where they begun
So the poor turn-spit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he loses ground.
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends:
And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth:
For, in her helpless years deprived of all,
Of every stay save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, lived in a cottage far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale:
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty conceal'd.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passions and low-minded pride;
Almost on Nature's common bounty fed,
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure
As is the lily, or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers:
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace
Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; and loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close-embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild:
So flourished blooming, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia; till, at length compelled
By strong necessity's supreme command,
With smiling patience in her looks, she went
To glean Palemon's fields.
2. MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE.
Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain;
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame: how many bleed,
By shameful variance betwixt man and man:
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air and common use
Of their own limbs: how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind.
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;
Whence tumbling headlong from the height of life
They furnish matter for the tragic muse:
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