WHITE ROSES.

(Vol. vii., p. 329.)

The allusion is to the well-known Jacobite badge of the white rose, which was regularly worn on June 10, the anniversary of the Old Pretender's birthday, by his adherents. Fielding refers to the custom in his Amelia:

"On the lovely 10th of June, under a serene sky, the amorous Jacobite, kissing the odoriferous Zephyr's breath, gathers a nosegay of white roses to deck the whiter breast of Celia."—Amelia, edit. 1752, vol. i. p. 48.

The following lines are extracted from a collection of considerable merit, now become uncommon, the authors of the different papers in which were Dr. Deacon and Dr. Byrom, and which is entitled Manchester Vindicated (Chester, 1749, 12mo.). The occasion was on a soldier snatching a white rose from the bosom of a young lady on June 10, 1747:

"Phillis to deck her snowy breast

The rival-flowers around display'd,

Thraso, to grace his war-like crest

Of orange-knots a huge cockade,

That reds and whites, and nothing else,

Should set the beaux against the belles!

II.

"Yet so it was; for yesterday

Thraso met Phillis with her posies,

And thus began th' ungentle fray,

'Miss, I must execute those roses.'

Then made, but fruitless made, a snatch,

Repuls'd with pertinacious scratch.

III.

"Surpriz'd at such a sharp rebuke,

He cast about his cautious eyes,

Invoking Vict'ry and the Duke,

And once again attack'd the prize;

Again is taught to apprehend,

How guardian thorns the rose defend.

IV.

"Force being twice in vain apply'd,

He condescended then to reason;

'Ye Jacobitish ——,' he cry'd

'In open street, the love of treason

With your white roses to proclaim!

Go home, ye rebel slut, for shame!'

"'Go you abroad to Flanders yonder,

And show your valour there, Sir Knight;

What bus'ness have you here, I wonder,

With people's roses, red or white?

Go you abroad, for shame,' says Phillis,

'And from the Frenchmen pluck their lilies.'

VI.

"'Lilies!' says Thraso, 'lilies too!

The wench, I find, would be a wit,

Had she command of words eno',

And on the right one chanced to hit:

For pity, once, I'll set her clear:

The laurels, you would say, my dear.'

VII.

"'No, but I would not, Sir; you know

What laurels are no more than I,

Upon your head they'll never grow,

My word for that, friend, and good-bye:

He that of roses robs a wench,

Will ne'er pluck laurels from the French.'"

Jas. Crossley.