Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em,
With naught but—literature betwixt 'em.
[1] See "Ella of Garveloch."—Garveloch being a place where there was a large herring-fishery, but where, as we are told by the author, "the people increased much faster than the produce."
SUNDAY ETHICS.
A SCOTCH ODE.
Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell
That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true,
We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,
A chiel o' our ain, that the De'il himsel
Will be glad to keep clear of, ane Andrew Agnew.
So at least ye may reckon for one day entire
In ilka lang week ye'll be tranquil eneugh,
As Auld Nick, do him justice, abhors a Scotch squire,
An' would sooner gae roast by his ain kitchen fire
Than pass a hale Sunday wi' Andrew Agnew.
For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,
He'd na let a cat on the Sabbath say "mew;"
Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,
An Phoebus himsel could na travel that day.
As he'd find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.
Only hear, in your Senate, how awfu' he cries,
"Wae, wae to a' sinners who boil an' who stew!
"Wae, wae to a' eaters o' Sabbath baked pies,
"For as surely again shall the crust thereof rise
"In judgment against ye," saith Andrew Agnew!
Ye may think, from a' this, that our Andie's the lad
To ca' o'er the coals your nobeelity too;
That their drives, o' a Sunday, wi' flunkies,[1] a' clad
Like Shawmen, behind 'em, would mak the mon mad—
But he's nae sic a noodle, our Andie Agnew.
If Lairds an' fine Ladies, on Sunday, think right
To gang to the deevil—as maist o' 'em do—
To stop them our Andie would think na polite;
And 'tis odds (if the chiel could get onything by't)
But he'd follow 'em, booing, would Andrew Agnew.