"You've only got to curtsey, whisp-
Er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night,
Then why not Nancy Lake?"
But while I'm speaking, where's papa ?
And where's my aunt ? and where's mamma?
Where's Jack? Oh, there they sit!
They smile, they nod;. I'll go my ways
And order round poor Billy's chaise,
To join them in the pit.
And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;
So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsey, like a pretty Miss,
And if you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.
CCXCI. RICHARD GALL, 1776–1801.
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloaming,
Fare thee weel before I gang-
Bonny Doon, where early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang !
Bowers, adieu! where love decoying
First enthralled this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,
Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine!
Friends so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae render'd moments dear;
But, alas, when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh how severe!
Frienas, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be !
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
CCXCII. N. T. CARRINGTON, 1777-1830.
In bloom or blight, in glory or in shade;
The shower or sunbeam fell or glanced as pleased
These potent elves. They steered the giant cloud
Through heaven at will, and with the meteor flash
Came down in death or sport; ay, when the storm
Shook the old woods, they rode on rainbow wings.
The tempest; and, anon, they reined its rage
In its fierce mid career. But ye have flown,
Beautiful fictions of our fathers! flown
Before the wand of Science, and the hearths
Of Devon, as lags the disenchanted year,
Are passionless and silent.
CCXCIII. SIR J. B. BURGESS,
PROLOGUE TO VORTIGERN.
No common cause your verdict now demands,
Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;
That mighty master of the human soui,
Who rules the passions and with strong control
Through every turning of the changeful heart
Directs his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.
When on his birth propitious nature smiled,
And hung transported o'er her favourite child;
While on his head her choicest gifts she shower'd,
And o'er his mind her inspiration poured :-
Proceed," she cried, "the high decree fulfil!
'Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;
On fancy's wing to stretch o'er boundless space,
And all creation's varied works to trace;
'Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,
Each hidden power of sense to bring to view,
To shed o'er British taste celestial day,
And reign o'er genius with unrivalled sway."
Such was the high behest-the sacred choice
Long has been sanctioned by our candid voice:
The favour'd relics of your Shakspeare's hand,
Unrivalled and inimitable, stand.
If hope of fame some modern bards has led
To try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread :
If, with presumptuous wing, they dared aspire
To catch some portion of his sacred fire,—
Your critic powers the vain attempt repell'd,
The flimsy vapour by your breath dispell'd,
Exposed the trembling culprit to your sight,
While Shakspeare's radiance shone with doubled light.
From deep oblivion snatch'd this play appears:
It claims respect, since Shakspeare's name it bears;
That name, the source of wonder and delight,
To a fair hearing has at least a right.
We ask no more with you the judgment lies;
No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!
Unbiass'd then pronounce your dread decree,
Alike from prejudice and favour free.
If, the fierce ordeal passed, you chance to find
Rich sterling ore, tho' rude and unrefined,
Stamp it your own; assert your poet's fame,
And add fresh wreaths to Shakspeare's honour'd name.
CCXCIV. W. H. IRELAND, 1777-1834.
VORTIGERN'S SOLILOQUY.
Fortune, I thank thee.
Now is the cup of my Iambition full !
And, by the rising tempest in my blood,
I feel the fast approach of greatness, which,
E'en like a peasant, stoops for my acceptance.
Yet hold! O conscience, how is it with thee?
Why dost thou whisper? should I heed thee now?
My fabric crumbles and must fall to nought!
Come then, thou soft, thou double-faced deceit !
Come, fawning flattery! silence-sealing murder!
Attend me quick, and prompt me to the deed!
What! jointly wear the crown! No! I will all!
And, that my purpose soon may find its end,
This my good king must I unmannerly
Push from his seat, and fill myself the chair.--
Welcome, thou glittering mark of royalty!
And with thy pleasing, yet oppressive weight,
Encircle fast this my determined brow.
Yet soft! ere I proceed let caution guide me:
For though the trunk and body of the tree
Be thus within my gripe, still do I fear
Those boughs which stand so near and close allied,
That will, ere long, yield seeds for dire revenge,
Then since my soul e'en murder must commit,
To gratify my thirst for royalty,
Why should I play the child? or like a niggard,
By sparing, mar and damn my cause for ever?
No! as the blow strikes one, all three must fall!
Then shall I, giant-like, and void of dread,
Uprear my royal and encircled brow,
And in the face of the Omnipotent,
Bid bold defiance.-
This my determination, then, shall be,
So, firm as adamant the end I'll see.
CCXCV. T. CAMPBELL, 1777-1844.
1. HOHENLINDEN.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,-
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!--
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high!
And swear for her to live!-with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge, or death, the watch-word and reply;
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolì d their last alarm!
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew :—
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