Upon reading the Journal of a Friend’s Tour into Scotland, in which the picturesque Scenery and the Character of the People are fairly and liberally stated.
Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth,
When late the[[12]] surly Rambler wandered forth
In brown[[13]] surtout, with ragged staff,
Enough to make a savage laugh!
And sent the faithless legend from his hand,
That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,
That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face,
That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace,
But, harden’d by their northern wind,
Rude, deceitful, and unkind,
Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied,
Victims at once of penury and pride.
Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here,
Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe.
Fairly thy merit dares impart,
Asserts thy hospitable heart,
Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains,
And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains.
[12] Dr. Johnson, author of the Rambler.
[13] Alluding to his dress, as described by Mr. Boswell.
LINES
WRITTEN UPON A HILL,
On leaving the Country.
Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!
Ere your green fields again I view,
These looks may change their youthful hue.
Dependence sternly bids me part
From all that ye, lov’d scenes! impart,
Far from my treasure and my heart.
Tho’ winter shall your bloom invade,
Fancy may visit ev’ry shade,
Each bow’r shall kiss the wand’ring maid.
To busier scenes of life I fly,
Where many smile, where many sigh,
As Chance, not Worth, turns up the die.
BANKRUPTCY RENDERED EASY.
The Cit, relying on his trade,
Which, like all other things, may fade,
Longs for a curricle and villa:
This Hatchet splendidly supplies,
The other Cock’ril builds, or buys,
To charm himself and Miss Hautilla.
Then swift, O London! he retires,
To be, from all thy smoke and spires,
From Saturday till Sunday, merry:
On Sunday crowds of friends attend;
His house and garden some commend,
And all admire his port and sherry.
His mistress urg’d him now to play,
And cut to wealth a shorter way,
Now as a bride she heads his table;
But still our Cit observ’d his time.
Returning at St. Cripple’s chime,
At least as near as he was able.
But soon she could not bear the sight
Of town; for walls with bow’rs unite,
As well as smoke with country breezes;
Without the keenest grief and pride
He could not quit his mares, and bride:
We yield as soon as passion seizes.
The clock no more his herald prov’d;
Tuesday, nay Wednesday, morn have mov’d,
Ere trembling shopmen saw their master:
Observing neighbours whisper’d round,
That ease might do, with plenty crown’d;
If not, that ruin came the faster.
His cash grew scarce, his business still,
At variance were his books and till
(For wolves devour when shepherds slumber);
His creditors around him pour,
Seize all his horses, household store,
And only give him up the lumber!