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Poetry.

caufe; but as every one had not his trumpet, his advice was wafted away and scattered by the winds.

You give good counfel, faid Afhtaroth. though it cannot be heard. You fee, were it not for want of knowing one another, the one might acquire fame and the other riches, and the wants of both be removed.

His inftruments prefented him with feveral other objects no lefs curious and interefting. Sometimes he faw a man equally tirefome to himself and troublefome to others; who, in order tó procure company, would go to the Palais Royal, and ask a number of perfons to dine with him, though fcarcely acquainted with their names; while at the fame moment, in the garden of the Thuilleries, a worthy man, who was half famifhed, could meet with no invitation. Sometimes he faw an honest man in the atmoft diftress, because he was un

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able to borrow a trifling fum on unexceptionable fecurity; and at the next inftant a rich ufurer in the greateft uneafinefs, becaufe he could not lend his money to advantage. Perpetually the fame reflection recurred: all this is for want of knowing one another. Well, faid Surival, and what is the moral of this exhibition? What your conclufion?

1 conclude, replied Afhtaroth, that Nature hath furnished men with all that is neceffary to render them happy, and that it is their own fault if they are not fo.

True, returned Surival; all I have to fay is, that though men, undoubtedly, have among them whatever is neceffary to their happiness, yet they are likely to be but little the better for Nature's kindnefs, unless you furnifh them with your telescope and trumpet, to enable them to difcover where what they want is to be found.

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An Old Heroic Ballad.

Now Cummynge, faid he, mete my arm,

REYELYGHTE was creepynge up the This fword fhall drink thy lyfe.

eafte,

And ftealynge through the fkye,

When Cummynge on the Reddynge hill
An army did defcrye.

The rattlynge of their armour brighte
Proclaym'd the commynge foe,
And foon a thoufand glittrynge fpears
Their dethlye poyntes did fhowe.

Then Cummynge blewe a mightye blast,
All from the horn of warre;

It rollynge owre the valleys spread,
And owre the hills afarre.

And owre the heathe the found was hearde
So drede in every carre;

A thousand hands, a thousand glaives,
Above their helmets rere.

The foemen on the Reddynge hill
Nae farther did advaunce;

Come on, faid Cummynge to his men,
With them we'll break a launce.

To meete the foe, then up the hill,
In pride of heart, they ftrode :

And owre each fhoulder Cummynge wore
A twynklynge bélt faé broade.

Now arrowes flew and helmets rang,
And launces broken lay;

And every fword a fword oppos'd;
Sae bluidy was that day.

Sterne Maurice, Cumberlande's brave son,
Advaunc'd in front of ftryfe;

Through Scotlande have I trode in arms
The long fed ftryfe to redd,

That 'twyxt thy father's houfe and mine
Much noble bluide hath fhed.
From Englande are the trufty bands
That wage my cause with thine;
Now Cummynge on the front appearré,
And raife thine arm to mine.

More had he faid, but Cummynge bauld
Met him upon the heathe,

And with a ftroke across the neck
Laid Maurice low in deathe.

How, Maurice, art thou fall'n! he faidé,
How low the warrior lies!

Thy body in the earthe shall lie,

Thy deeds afcende the skyes!

Then Lorn advanc'd in front of stryfe
With fury ftarynge wylde;

But when he faw Lord Maurice low,
The warrior grymily fmyld.

Rothfay and I this day have foughte,
Thus Lorn to Cummynge spoke;
But Rothfay's dede; revenge his deathe!
The arm of warre is broke.

Brave Flemynge too doth lyfeleffe lye
And Forres fleeps in deathe;

Young Murray's lease of lyfe is out,
And flown his

partynge

breathe.

Never

Never fhall Rofs's yellow locks
Be feen in hall or bowere:

Revenge their deathes, quothe ruddye Lorn;
Raise high your arm of powère.

Quothe Cummynge, ftop the bluidye fword,
The foemen few appearre,

Owre yonder hill they feeke their way,
And lift their feet with feare.

Then owre the fmokynge field was hearde
The pleafynge voice of peace;
The warriors rested on their spearres,
And all the warre did cease.

Revenge uppon a rock did stande,
Faft by the bluidye tyde,

And from his furious bluid-run eyes,
Did rapid lyghtninges glyde.

But when the battle's heat was owre,
He ftrode across the heathe,

His flowynge garments droppynge bluide,
And in his trayne ftalk'd Deathe.
Englande, of thirteen hundrede youthes,
Saw onlye feventye-three;

And thofe were they owre Reddynge hill
Sac speedilye did flee.

May Scotlande's hardy race prevaile
Owre every battlynge foe:

If on our fields they raise a firyfe,
May it be to their woe.

Dumbarton, Aug. 6.

A Parody on Sly Old Hodge, in the Wives

W

Reveng'd,

I.

*** S******, fam'd for maxims fage,
For fentiment none ere was fuch,

Lamented fad this wicked age,
Lamented fad this wicked age:
Some thought it virtue over-much.

With fly old Hodge all must agree,
His maxims ftill hold good with me,
Great talkers do the leaft, d'ye fee
Great talkers do the leaft, d'ye fee,
II.

To mend the times and fashions horrid,
He fpar'd nor pen nor ink nor wit;
The rumps, the hats, the faces florid,
The rumps, the hats, the faces florid;
At each by turns he had a hit.

With fly old Hodge, &c.

III.

He pelted hard both Belle and Beau,
So much on reformation bent;
He taught our youth the way to go,
He taught our youth the way to go,
With many a learned fentiment.

With fly old Hodge, &c.

IV.

'Gainft fcandal W*** was wond'rous loud,
Hefwore no fin was half fo great;
And vengeance on all blabs he vow'd,
And vengeance on all blabs he vow'd;
Wet W*** was known fometimes to prate.
With fly old Hodge, &c.

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Sufannab and the Elders. Modernized from
PRIOR.
TWO wicked elders once, we read,
With the fame object fmit, agreed

To force Sufanna to their arms,
And feast, by turns, upon her charms.
But fhe, in conscious virtue bold,
Began to bite, and fcratch, and fcold:
With cries and fcreams th' affrighted maid
Brought all her footmen to her aid:
And thus preferv'd her charms untainted;
And for her chastity was * fainted.

Yet, haply, had the parties been
Juft the reverse of what we've feen;
Had the been old, her lovers young,
Sufanna might have held her tongue;
Nay, grievously, perhaps, refented
To've had the ravishers prevented.

SONG.

I.

I Hard by the object of my love,
F, placid zephyr, thou should'ft fly

Inform her that thou art a figh,
But not whofe bofom thou didst move.
II.

If, limpid rivʼlet, thou runn'st near
The nymph who is my conftant themes
Ah, murmur that thou art a tear,
But not whofe eye increas'd thy stream,

In the Popish calendar.

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THE

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

OR

LITERARY MISCELLANY,
FOR SEPTEMBER 1786.

[With a PLATE of ANTIQUITIES.]

CONTENT S.

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