Copy of a Letter to the same Lady, which served as a cover to the above, from Mr. James Wright, Writer in Edinburgh.

15 Nov. 1746

Madam,—Your brother, who is no more, delivered me this immediately before he suffered. His behaviour was becoming a humble Christian. I waited on him to the last, and with some other friends witnessed his interment in St. Cuthbert's Churchyard. He lies on the north side of the Church, within four yards of the second window from the steeple. Mr. Gordon of Tersperse,[176] and Patrick Murray,[177] goldsmith, lie just by him. God Almighty support his disconsolate widow and [fol. 387.] all his relations. I trust in His mercy He will provide for the fatherless and the widow. I am just now going to wait upon poor Lady Mary.[178] I am, Madam, yours, etc.,

J. W.

Carlisle, 15th November 1746.
4 o'clock afternoon.

SONG to the tune of 'A Cobler there was,' etc.

As the devil was walking o'er Britain's fair isle,

George spied in his phiz a particular smile,

And said, My old friend, if you have leisure to tarry,

Let's have an account what makes you so merry.

Derry, etc.

Old Beelzebub turn'd at a voice he well knew,

And stopping, cried, O Brother George, is it you?

Was my business of consequence ever so great,

I always find time on my friends for to wait.

Derry, etc.

This morning at 7 I set out of Rome,

Most fully intending ere this to've been home.

Pray stay, stay (says George), and took hold of his hand,

You know that St. James's is at your command.

Derry, etc.

And what says the Pope? our monarch began,

And what does he think of our enemy's son?

Why, first, when I came there (Old Satan replied)

He seem'd to have very great hope of his side.

Derry, etc.

But soon from the north arriv'd an express

With papers that gave me great joy, I confess,

Defeated was Charles, and his forces all gone,

I thought, on my soul, I should've leapt over the moon.

Derry, etc.

Of Charles's descendants I'm only afraid [fol. 388.]

Against my dominions their projects are laid;

Was a Stewart to govern England again,

Religion and honesty there soon might reign.

Derry, etc.

I oftentimes travel thro' France and thro' Spain

To visit my princes and see how they reign.

But of all my good servants, north, south, east and west,

I speak it sincerely, George! thou art the best.

Derry, etc.

Our monarch replied, looking wise as an ass,

Pray, none of your compliments—Take up your glass.

Tho' the trouble I gave you e'nt much, I must own,

But as for religion, you know I have none.

Derry, etc.

Then, as to my offspring, there's Feckie, my son,

Whom you wish and I wish may sit on the throne.

For by all men of wisdom and sense 'tis allow'd

If he there does no harm, he'll there do no good.

Derry, etc.

10.

There's Billy, my darling, my best belov'd boy,

Can ravish, can murder, can burn, can destroy—

Just a tool for you—'tis his nat'ral delight,

And likes it as well ev'ry whit as to fight.

Derry, etc.

11.

They shook hands at parting, and each bid adieu;

Old Beelzebub mutter'd these words as he flew—

'May thou and thy offspring for ever reign on,

For the devil can't find such a race when you're gone.'

Derry, etc.

Finis.

[fol. 389.]

ON A LATE DEFEAT, 1746, said to have been composed by a Scots gentleman, an officer in the Dutch service.

Canst thou, my muse, such desolation view—

Such dreadful havoc 'mong the loyal few;

Vile murders, robbery, consuming fire;

Mothers, with tender infants, starv'd, expire;

Daggers and death in ev'ry hideous face

Threat'ning destruction to the northern race;

Villains contending with a dev'lish joy

Who first shall plunder, or who first destroy;

Successful tyranny and laurell'd vice,

The gods assisting him, who Heav'n defies;

Seeming to spurn the good, th' illustrious youth,

Renown'd for mercy, piety, and truth;

Reluctant fighting passage to a crown

Which none but bigot-whigs deny his own?

Can'st thou behold, and still thy grief suppress,

Our prince and country in so deep distress?

Nor, fir'd with indignation, aid my pen

To lash the cruel deeds of guilty men?

Rouze, rouze, my muse, and curse the hated cause

Of lost religion, liberty, and laws!

Thy freedom, Scotland! in one fatal hour

Is sacrific'd, alas! to lawless pow'r.

All, all is lost! No spark of hope remains;

Death only now, or banishment and chains.

Hard fate of war! How hast thou changed the scene!

What just, what glorious enterprize made vain!

Pale Nature trembles; general decay

Succeeds the horrors of th' unlucky day.

The good, the brave, in sympathy unite, [fol. 390.]

Amaz'd that Heav'n did not maintain the fight.

Despairing beauty languishes to see

Such virtue vanquished in a righteous plea.

Has godlike Charles (such matchless glories past!)

Conquered so oft to be subdued at last?

These valiant chiefs, whom native courage fir'd,

Then exil'd king's and country's wrongs inspir'd,

T' assert the rights each one enjoy'd before,

And king and country's liberties restore;

Failing in that, with just contempt of life,

Resolv'd to perish 'midst the glorious strife;

Must these true heroes, these great patriots yield

And the usurper's forces keep the field?

A bloody, perjur'd, mercenary crew,

Who fled but lately whom they now pursue

Like fiends of hell, by worse than demon led,

They kill the wounded and they rob the dead.

O! Act of horror! more than savage rage

Unparallel'd in any former age!

Curst be the barb'rous executing hand,

And doubly curst who gave the dire command.

A deed so monstrous, shocking ev'n to name,

To all eternity 'twill damn their fame.

Ah! why, just Heaven! (But Heav'n ordain'd it so)

Are impious men allow'd to rule below?

Why does misfortune still attend the best,

Whilst those with life's supreme delights are blest?

Perplexing mistery to human sense;

The wonderful decree of Providence.

But virtue, happy in her self can bear } [fol. 391.]

(The ills of life most seemingly severe) }

Whatever fate the gods allot us here; }

Convinc'd that earthly happiness is vain

And most of pleasure's only rest from pain.

No shocks of fortune can her peace destroy,

Deserving bliss, indiff'rent to enjoy.

Calm and serene amidst the wrecks of fate,

As ne'er exalted in a prosp'rous state,

She bears adversity with stedfast mind,

To Heavn's decrees religiously resign'd.

Some time, perhaps, fair virtue will take place, }

Shining conspicuous in the royal race, }

To bless the land with liberty and peace. }

Tyrants subdu'd shall tremble at her nod

And learn that virtue is the cause of God.

A PARAPHRASE UPON PSALM 137.

(As it is said) by Willie Hamilton.

On Gallia's shore we sat and wept

When Scotland we thought on,

Rob'd of her bravest sons and all

Her ancient spirit gone.

Revenge, the sons of Gallia said,

Revenge your native land.

Already your insulting foes

Crowd the Batavian strand.

How shall the sons of freedom e'er

For foreign conquest fight?

For pow'r how wield the sword, depriv'd [fol. 392.]

Of Liberty and right?

If thee, O Scotland! I forget

Ev'n to my latest breath,

May foul dishonour stain my name

And bring a coward's death.

May sad remorse of fancy 'd guilt

My future days employ!

If all thy sacred rights are not

Above my chiefest joy.

Remember England's children, Lord!

Who, on Drummossie day,

Deaf to the voice of kindred love,

Raze, raze it quite, did say.

And thou, proud Gallia! faithless friend,

Whose ruin is not far,

Just Heav'n on thy devoted head

Pour all the woes of war!

When thou thy slaughter'd little ones

And ravish'd dames shalt see,

Such help, such pity may'st thou have

As Scotland had from thee.

ODE ON THE 20TH OF DECEMBER 1746.[179]

Hie dies, anno redeunte, festus, etc.

1. [fol. 393.]

A while forget the scenes of woe,

Forbid a while the tears to flow,

The pitying sigh to rise.

Turn from the ax the thought away;

'Tis Charles that bids us crown the day,

And end the night in joys.

So when bleak clouds and beating rain

With storms the face of Nature stain,

And all in gloom appears.

If Phœbus deign a short-liv'd smile,

The face of Nature charms a while,

A while the prospect cheers.

Come then, and while we largely pour

Libations to the genial hour,

That gave our hero birth;

Let us invite the tuneful nine

To sing a theme, like them, divine,

To paint our hero's worth.

How on his tender infant years,

The cheerful hand of Heav'n appears

To watch its chosen care.

Estrang'd to ev'ry foe to truth

Virtuous affliction nurs'd his youth.

Instructive tho' severe.

5. [fol. 394.]

No sinful court its poison lent

With early bane his mind to taint,

And blast his young renown.

His father's virtues fir'd his heart.

His father's sufferings truths impart.

That form'd him for a throne.

How at an age when pleasure charms,

Allures the stripling to her arms,

He plann'd the great design:

T' assert his injur'd father's cause,

Restore his suffering country's laws,

And prove his right divine.

How when on Scotia's beach he stood

The wond'ring throng around him crowd

To bend th' obedient knee.

Then thinking on their country chain'd,

They wept such worth so long detain'd

By Heav'n's severe decree.

Where'er he mov'd, in sweet amaze,

All ranks with transport on him gaze,

Ev'n grief forgets to pine.

The wisest sage, the chastest fair,

Applaud his sense and praise his air

Thus form'd with grace divine.

9. [fol. 395.]

How great in all the soldier's art,

With judgment calm, with fire of heart,

He bade the battle glow:

Yet greater on the conquer'd plain

He felt each wounded captive's pain,

More like a friend than foe.

10.

By good unmov'd, in ill resign'd,

No change of fortune chang'd his mind,

Tenacious of his aim.

In vain the gales propitious blew,

Affliction's darts as vainly flew,

His soul was still the same.

11.

Check'd in his glory's full career,

He felt no weak desponding fear

Amid distresses great.

By ev'ry want and danger prest,

No care possest his manly breast,

But for his country's fate.

12.

For oh! the woes, by Britons felt,

Had not aton'd for Britain's guilt.

So will'd offended Heav'n;

That yet a while th' usurping hand

With iron rod should rule the land,

The rod, for vengeance giv'n.

13. [fol. 396.]

But in its vengeance Heav'n is just,

And soon Britannia from the dust

Shall rear her head again.

Soon shall give way th' usurper's claim,

And peace and plenty soon proclaim

Again a Stewart's reign.

14.

What joys for happy Britain wait

When Charles shall rule the British state,

Her sullied fame restore:

When in full tides of transport tost,

Ev'n mem'ry of her wrongs is lost,

Nor Germans thought of more.

15.

The nations round with wondering eyes

Shall see old England aweful rise

As oft she did of yore.

And when she holds the ballanc'd scale,

Oppression shall no more prevail,

But fly her happy shore.

16.

Corruption, vice on ev'ry hand,

No more shall lord it o'er the land,

With their protectors fled.

Old English virtues in their place,

With all their hospitable race,

Shall rear their decent head.

17. [fol. 397.]

In peaceful shades the happy swain,

With open heart and honest strain,

Shall sing his long-wish'd lord.

Nor chuse a tale so fit to move

His list'ning fair one's heart to move,

As that of Charles restor'd.

18.

Tho' distant, let the prospect charm,

And ev'ry gallant bosom warm,

Forbear each tear and sigh.

Turn from the ax the thought away,

'Tis Charles that bids us crown the day

And end the night in joy.

Upon the Tenth of June, 1747.[180]

Let universal mirth now rear its head,

And joy, exulting, o'er the nation spread.

Let all this day forget each anxious fear,

And cease to mourn the ills which Britons bear—

This day, which once auspicious to our Isle,

Did all its long expecting hopes fulfil,

Gave to the world Great Britain's glorious heir,

Th' accomplishment of vows and ardent pray'r.

The hero now in good old age appears,

By Heav'n propitious, brought to sixty years;

While all th' admiring world do justly own

Their present wonder, fix'd on him alone—

Him whom no pow'r can force, no art persuade [fol. 398.]

To shake that basis so securely laid

On inborn virtue, which maintains its reign

While all the storms of fortune rage in vain.

He thro' the dusky gloom more bright does shine,

And in the ambient cloud appears divine.

Remove the cloud, kind Heav'n, and shew that ray

Sparkling in brightest splendour of the day!

Content with trials of misfortunes past,

Allow deserved honours at the last!

Had I been born with Homer's fertil vein,

Or softer genius of the Mantuan swain,

To've rais'd an Iliad in my sov'reign's praise,

And sing his fame in never-dying lays,

The world had first admir'd his manly state,

And wonder'd how he strove with adverse fate.

The future glories of our monarch now

Had swell'd my song, and made my numbers grow.

But tho' my muse does no such fire impart,

The mind is faithful and sincere the heart.

Then while in humble notes our joy we sing,

Paying our private homage to the king,

Bright Phœbus, gild each corner of the sky, }

And with new lustre feed our dazled eye, }

T'inspire our mirth and animate our joy. }

But see, the face of Heav'n begins to frown,

The sullen, heavy day goes low'ring on. [fol. 399.]

The sun in mists and vapours hides his head,

And gloomy darkness o'er the world is spread.

Hear, Heav'n's hoarse voice runs murmuring thro' the sky,

And pales of horrid thunder dreadful fly.

Flashes of lightning thro' the air do gleam.

And Æther seems but one continued flame;

Clouds dash'd on clouds with utmost fury rend,

And on the drowned earth their watery ruines send.

Kind Heav'n! is this the pomp that thou dost raise?

This thy rejoicing on festival days?

To hear thy angry threats proclaim aloud

Thy dismal vengeance on the guilty crowd,

We kiss the hand from whence these terrors come.

And own our well-deserved and fatal doom.

We take the omen which thou'rt pleased to give.

Our errors we repent. Then let us live.

Thou spurn'st to see this day neglected lie,

Another shining with vain pageantry.

Since then in anger once thou hast declar'd

That vice no more shall triumph with regard.

Let all the plagues of murder now be flung

On these curst bratts from whom our mischief sprung.

There's ruffling work abroad, and hence must flow

Mutations here, th' usurper's overthrow.

Tho' at some distance, yet methinks I hear

Most pleasant news—the Restoration's near.

Receive the off'rings which we humbly make;

Appease thy fury ere thy vengeance break.

Accept our penitence, and let us see

Our monarch glorious and our country free.

SOLILOQUY, September 29th, 1746.

29 Sept. 1746

This prop and that successively decays.[fol. 400.]

Strokes thicken; each alarm my heart dismays,

Widow'd of ev'ry earthly flatt'ring joy.

Sorrows on sorrows roll without alloy.

My country bleeds, and in its ruines lie

Thousands. My all's perhaps condemned to die.

Amaz'd, o'erwhelmed, without one cheering ray,

From those dread scenes, when shall I wing my way?

To Thee, great God, I lift my fainting soul,

Who fierce, devouring passions canst controul.

Nature, convulsive, wrapt in furious forms,

Calms at thy word. Contend shall mortal worms?

If partial ill promotes the gen'ral good,

Tho' nature shrinks, I kiss the angry rod.

This, this alone, my spirits can sustain,

That thou supreme o'er all the world dost reign.

When I or mine, howe'er decreed to fall,

Shall turn to dust, be our eternal all.

Meanwhile, inspire with fortitude divine;

In prisons and in death, thy face make shine.

Thy smiles, O God! each trial can unsting,

And out of gall itself can sweetness bring.

O Liberty! O Virtue! O my Country!

Tell me, ye wise, now sunk in deep despair,

Where grows the med'cine for oppressive care?

Where grows it not? th' ingenious Pope replies;

'To make the happy, friend, be good, be wise;

Add only competence to health and peace,

You need no more to perfect happiness.'

O strangers to the sorrows of the mind, [fol. 401.]

The load of ills that oft afflicts mankind!

One chain of woes another still succeeds.

Our friends are martyr'd, and our country bleeds.

Humanity's too weak these ills to bear;

Too plain a proof no happiness is here.

Must we, content, slavery's curse endure,

Nor bravely wish, nor once attempt a cure?

Will rebel-murderers from blood refrain?

Will corrupt statesmen liberty maintain?

Will Britain clear her long-contracted scores

On armies, fleets, for Hanover and whores?

Will justice flourish, will our trade increase,

Our fame grow greater, or our taxes less?

Bid things impossible in our natures rise!

Bid knaves turn honest, nay, bid fools turn wise!

Bid France keep faith! Bid England show her zeal,

And fight as well as wish to turn the scale!

Bid sympathy forsake my joyless breast,

Or miracles revive to give me rest!

In private life may happiness be found

With those who only live, or who abound?

Mark all estates, and shew me if you can,

What's more precarious than the bliss of man.

Amidst his joys, uncertain to possess,

The fear of losing makes the pleasure less.

Thus one's tormented with foreboding pain,

Another's wretched thro' desire of gain.

Some who enjoy health, peace, and competence,

Are still unhappy; they've but common sense.

The man of genius, brighter far and great, [fol. 402.]

Would gladly change for a genteel estate.

In ev'ry station discontent we see;

Each thinks his neighbour happier than he.

Search the world o'er, 'tis doubtful if you find

One man's condition fitted to his mind.

Alternate real or imagin'd woes

Disturb our life and all our joys oppose.

Nor can my muse the mournful tale avoid,

What numbers zeal and brav'ry have destroy'd,

The gen'rous, faithful, uncorrupted band,

Design'd deliv'rers of a sinking land.

Tho' good, unfortunate; oppress'd, tho' brave;

See spiteful foes pursue them to the grave.

Unshaken loyalty is all their crime,

And struggling with their chains a second time.

For this they suffer worse than traitor's fate,

Condemned by knaves and furies of the state,

In loathsome dungeons close confin'd they lie,

To feel a thousand deaths before they die.

At last these heroes must resign their breath,

And close the scene with ignominious death.

Thus ev'n the best their virtue has undone,

And fix'd the slav'ry which they sought to shun.

How then shall man attain the state of bliss?

In t' other world he may, but not in this.

Unjustly, therefore, some we happy call. [fol. 403.]

More or less wretched is the fate of all.

Upon the different Accounts of the behaviour of the two executed lords (Kilmarnock and Balmerino), taken out of an English Newspaper.

If Ford and Foster haply disagree,

What is a trivial circumstance to me.

But this of their two heroes I remark,

Howe'er the historians leave us in the dark,

Old Rough and Tugged much outmann'd the Earl,

And tho' mistaken was a steady carl.

The Earl's conversion is an obvious thing,

If not to Christ, at least to George our king.

Arthurus, Dominus de Balmerino, decollatus 18 die Augusti 1746, ætatis suæ 58. By a Lady.

Here lies the man, to Scotland ever dear,

Whose honest breast ne'er felt a guilty fear.

By principle, not mean self int'rest, sway'd,

The victor left to bring the vanquish'd aid;

His courage manly, but his words were few,

Content in poverty, and own'd it too.

In life's last scene with dignity appears,

Not for himself, but for his country, fears;

Pities the graceful partner of his fall,

And nobly wishes he might die for all.

Ev'n enemies, convinc'd, his worth approv'd: [fol. 404.]

He fell admir'd, lamented, and belov'd.

The above turned into the form of an Inscription.

Here lies Arthur, Lord Balmerino,

Whose memory will be ever dear to his country.

Religiously strict and judicious in the choice

Of his principles and maxims of life,

With an inflexible constancy was he attached to them.

He left the service of George, in which he bore some rank,

To join the sinking cause of the injured James,

After the woeful defeat at Dumblane.

He was a man of great personal courage

And remarkable modesty

In a corrupted age, asham'd of nothing but want.

He bore unmerited poverty with a Roman greatness of soul.

In the closing scene of life

He behaved with surprizing dignity,

Expressing a warm regard for his unhappy country

And vindicating his own honour and that of the injured Charles P.

Feelingly he express'd a generous concern for his companion,

And nobly wish'd he alone might suffer for the cause.

He triumphed over calumny, silenced his enemies

Struck with admiration at his uncommon intrepidity,

And fell admired, lamented, esteemed by all.

Upon the same.

Here Arthur lies, the rest forbear;

There may be treason in a tear.

Yet this bold soger may find room

Where scepter'd tyrants dare not come.

[fol. 405.]

Upon the death of Sir Alexander MacDonald,[181] etc.

If Heav'n be pleas'd when sinners cease to sin;

If Hell be pleas'd when sinners enter in;

If earth be pleas'd to lose a truckling knave;

Then all are pleas'd—MacDonald's in his grave.

Spoken extempore on Lovat's Execution, by a lover of all those who will and dare be honest in the worst of times.

None but the hangman, Murray,[182] or some tool,

Could from his heart say Lovat was a fool.

Yet ev'ry coxcomb will explain and teach

The chain of causes that surpass his reach.

When soft Kilmarnock,[183] trembling, came to bleed,

He fell a traitor and a wretch indeed.

His coward soul the canting preacher awes,

He weeps and dies a rebel to the cause.

'Twas hope of pardon; 'twas fanatick fear;

And none but Hanoverians dropt a tear.

Brave Balmerino, whom no words can paint,

Embrac'd his martyrdom and died a saint.

He sprang triumphant to a better state,

By all confest, superiour to his fate.

If Ratcliffe's [184] youthful crimes receiv'd their due, [fol. 406.]

Ratcliffe was steady, bold and loyal too.

This much be said, to palliate his offence,

Howe'er he liv'd, he died a man of sense.

But Frazer was a man by Heav'n decreed

Not quite so legible for fools to read.

Him in his manly labyrinth they mistook,

And partial to their wit the clue forsook.

He has no policy when none they find,

And is not visible when they are blind.

As the sun's course thro' various scenes does wind

From one great principle to one great end;

So did his actions, words and deeds combine

To perfect and accomplish one design.

For this alone he labours to be great;

For this he courts his honours and estate;

For this in secret he his faith conceals;

For this invents a plot and then reveals;

For this holds combat with domestick strife,

And seizes, like old Rome, a Sabine wife;

Wins confidence from artful foes by art,

And on the statesman plays the statesman's part.

The making one great stake, and that his last,

He ventures all on the important cast

On which the whole of's happiness depends,

His life, his fortune, family and friends.

All, all's too little for the glorious cause.

If he had won (for there the difference lies),

That very crowd his triumph would attend

Who lately came, to view his noble end.

[fol. 407.]

Upon a young lady, who died on seeing her lover,[185] Mr Dawson,[186] executed on the 30th of July 1746.

As the fair martyr her dear lover saw

Lie the pale victim of inhuman law,

His gen'rous blood distilling all around,

And life, swift ebbing, thro' each crimson wound;

It seemed as if from mortal passion freed

She blest his death, for honour doom'd to bleed.

But when, high-raised, she saw the panting heart,

Now let thy handmaid, Heav'n! she cried, depart

Be Judge, O Thou, whose ballance sways above!

Receive our souls to pardon and to love!

At once she burst the feeble bonds of clay,

And her free soul, exulting, springs away.

To endless bliss, they issue, out of pain.

One moment separates, and joins again.

The Contrast set in its proper light. Said to be done by a lady.

Fam'd were the bards of old untainted days,

When only merit felt the breath of praise.

When Heav'n-born muses taught the tuneful lay,

The brave to honour and the good display,

Virtue's fair form, tho' hid in rags, to sing,

And loath the baneful court and sinful king.

But now (sad change!) no more the poet's theme

Tastes thy chaste waters, Hippocrenè's stream.

His breast no more the sacred sisters urge, [fol. 408.]

Of truth the patrons and of vice the scourge.

Venal, he seeks the court, and shuns the lawn,

On pride to flatter and on pow'r to fawn;

Pour forth his incense at the country's shrine,

And raise th' usurping race to race divine.

He who would toil in Honour's ard'ous tract

Must virtue seek alone for virtue's sake,

For now to merit are unwonted things

The breath of poets and the smiles of kings.

See where the rhiming throng on William wait,

And patch up ev'ry worth to make him great;

Sing how he triumph'd on fair Clifton's Green,

And how his mind is lovely as his mien;

Call ancient heroes from their seat of joy,

To see their fame outshadow'd by a boy;

Rob ev'ry urn and ev'ry page explore,

And tell now Cæsar's deeds are deeds no more;

No more shall guide the war, nor fire the song,

But William be the theme of ev'ry tongue,

While Brunswick-kings Britannia's throne shall grace,

And George's virtues live in George's race.

Such is the theme the flatt'ring songsters chuse,

And oh, how worthy of the theme the muse!

While, lo! a youth arises in the north

Of royal virtues as of royal birth;

Of worth, which in the dawn of ages, shewn

Without the claim of birth, had gain'd a throne.

Tho' in him ev'ry grace and glory join

To add new lustre to the Stewart's line;

Tho' Vict'ry makes the youthful Charles her care, [fol. 409.]

No bard attends on his triumphal car.

On firmer base he builds his sure applause,

Recover'd freedom and protected laws.

Say, Scotland, say, for thou must surely know;

You felt the rapture, and you feel the woe.

Say, when he trode upon the kindly earth,

The genial soil which gave his fathers birth,

Did not his outstretched hand with bounty spread

Paternal blessings on thy children's heads;

Hush them to peace amidst the din of war,

And still the matron's sigh and virgin's fear?

Bid peaceful plenty wave along the plain

The untouch'd harvest of the golden grain?

Did not the youth, enliven'd with his flame,

Glow for the fight and ardent pant for fame?

Strove not each rev'rend sage and hoary sire

His worth to honour and his sense admire?

Did not his form, with ev'ry beauty grac'd,

Raise a chaste rapture in each virgin's breast?

But when he quits the scene of soft delight,

The graceful measure for the deathful fight,

Say, saw thy plains (where many a deathless name,

Where Bruce, where Wallace, fought their way to fame,

Where Douglas, race heroick, nobly rose,

Secur'd thy freedom and expell'd thy foes)—

Saw they e'er one amongst the chieftain throng,

So ripe in glory and in years so young;

Whose pride not more to vanquish than to save,

In conquest gentle as in action brave?

Like Philip's son, victorious in the course

With skill superiour and inferiour force;

Like Xenophon, secure midst hostil bands, [fol. 410.]

He led his glorious few from distant lands,

And join'd to sense of head the fire of heart,

Of one the courage, and of one the art.

While virtue lives, while honour has a name,

While acts heroic fill the rolls of fame,

First in the list shall Gladesmuir have a place,

And Falkirk-plain, mark, Hawley! thy disgrace.

Now change the scene and show the sad reverse,

Where winter blasts th' autumnal smiles disperse;

Where the fierce Hanover directs the storm

And Hawley joys his mandates to perform.

To whom compar'd an Alva's name is sweet,

Brave in the field tho' cruel in the State.

See thro' the land how hostil fury burns

And peopled vales to rueful deserts turns!

See how the smoking country round thee groans,

Invokes in vain thy desolated towns!

See age unrev'renc'd, dragg'd from peaceful ease

And join'd in dreary jayls to loath'd disease!

Before their sires see ravished maids complain,

And raise their beaut'ous eyes to Heav'n in vain.

Oh! more than savage, who pursue their rage

On bloom of beauty and the hoar of age!

And what exploits exalt this hero's praise?

Where spring the laurels which your poets raise?

Spring they from conquest o'er the village tame,

The sire enfeebled and the aged dame.

View well this sketch and say of which the face [fol. 411.]

Presents the royal mark of Scotland's race.

He who would save thee from destruction's blast,

Or he who lays thy beauties in the dust?

So judg'd of old the good King David's heir

With nice discernment the deserving fair;

Repuls'd the dame who cruel would destroy,

And blest the feeling mother with her boy.

A CATCH, 1746.

Here's a health to the King, the Prince and the Duke.

May all loyal subjects say—God bless the three!

Come weal or come woe, to my master I'll go,

And follow his standard, wherever it be.

I'll chear up my heart with a health to my master,

In hopes of another Dundee or Montrose.

I'm heartily griev'd for my Prince's disaster.

God save him, and send him the heart of his foes!