Phe. There's fifty young men have told me fine tales,
And called me the fairest she ;
But of all the gay wrestlers that sport on the
Young Harry's the lad for me.
Will. Her eyes are as black as the sloe in the hedge, Her face like the blossoms in May,
Her teeth are as white as the new-shorn flock,
Her breath like the new-made hay.
He's tall and he's straight as the poplar tree,
His cheeks are as fresh as the rose;
He looks like a squire of high degree
When dressed in his Sunday clothes.
CXCIV. JOHN SKINNER, 1721-1807.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit.
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
At che reel of Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend;
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat,
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum!
CXCV. THOMAS BLACKLOCK, 1721-1791.
ON A LADY DESERTED IN A FOREIGN LAND.
From foreign bounty she obtain'd that aid,
Which friendship, love, humanity, at home
Denied her blasted worth. From foreign hands
Her glowing lips received the cooling draught
To soothe the fever's rage. From foreign eyes
The tear, by nature, love, and friendship due,
Flow'd copious o'er the wreck, whose charms in death
Still blooming, at the hand of ruin smiled.
Destined, alas! in foreign climes to leave
Her pale remains unhonour'd; while the hearse
Of wealthy guilt emblazon'd, boasts the pride
Of painted heraldry; and sculptured stone
Protects or flatters its detested fame.
Vain trappings of mortality! When these
Shall crumble like the worthless dust they hide;
Then thou, dear spirit! in immortal joy,
Crown'd with intrinsic honours, shalt appear;
And God himself, to listening crowds proclaim
Thy injured tenderness, thy faith unstain'd,
Thy mildness long insulted, and thy worth
Severely tried, and found at last sincere.
CXCVI. FRANCIS FAWKES, 1721-1777.
Dear Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,
(Out of which I now drink to sweet Kate of the vale)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathomed a bowl;
In bousing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanced as in dog-c, he sat at his ease,
In his flower-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.
His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolved it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he formed this brown jug;
Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely sweet Kate of the vale!
CXCVII. MARK AKENSIDE, 1721-1770.
What, then, is taste, but these internal powers,
Active, and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deformed, or disarranged, or gross
In species? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state, nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul,
He, mighty Parent! wise and just in all,
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven,
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils,
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming, as through amber clouds,
O'er all the western sky; full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutored airs,
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
The form of Beauty smiling at his heart,
How lovely! how commanding! But though Heaven
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love and admiration, yet in vain
Without fair Culture's kind parental aid,
Without enlivening suns and genial showers,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant shall rear its blooming head,
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labour; or attend
His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Different minds
Incline to different objects: one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony and grace,
And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground,
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And Ocean, groaning from its lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flowery stream,
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain
Resound soft warbling all the live-long day:
Consenting Zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such, and so various, are the tastes of men.
CXCVIII. Dr JAMES GRAINGER, 1721-1766.
O Solitude, romantic maid!
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or, at the purple dawn of day,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey,
You, recluse, again, I woo,
And again your steps pursue.
Plumed Conceit himself surveying,
Folly with her shadow playing,
Purse-proud, elbowing Insolence,
Bloated empiric, puffed Pretence,
Noise that through a trumpet speaks,
Laughter in loud peals that breaks,
Intrusion with a fopling's face,
(Ignorant of time and place),
Sparks of fire Dissension blowing,
Ductile, court-bred Flattery, bowing,
Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer,
Squint-eyed Censure's artful sneer,
Ambition's buskins, steeped in blood,
Fly thy presence, Solitude.
Sage Reflection, bent with years,
Conscious Virtue void of fears,
Muffled Silence, wood-nymph shy,
Meditation's piercing eye,
Halcyon Peace on moss reclined,
Retrospect that scans the mind,
Wrapt earth-gazing Reverie,
Blushing artless Modesty,
Health that snuffs the morning air,
Full-eyed truth with bosom bare,
Inspiration, Nature's child,
Seek the solitary wild.
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