But at twel at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;
For the man that loves his mistress weel
Nae travel makes him weary.
EPISTLE TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY,
RESPECTING FIVE HUNDRED HIGHLANDERS ATTEMPTING TO EMIGRATE TO AMERICA.
To the Right Hon. the Earl of B*
Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society,
which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakespeare,
Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate
the designs of Five hundred HIGHLANDERS who, as the
Society were informed by Mr. M of A**** s, were
so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful
lords and masters, whose property they are, by emigrating
from the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds
of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing-LIBERTY.
LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highlan' boors!
Lord grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' durk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as butchers like a knife!
Faith, you and A****s were right
To keep the Highlan' hounds in sight!
I doubt na! they wad bid na better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang the lakes and seas
They'll mak what rules an' laws they please.
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highlan' bluid a-ranklin ;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them;
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads an' hearts directed:
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire,
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch an' premier owre the pack vile!
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance?
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation!
They, an' be d-d! what right hae they To meat, or sleep, or light o'day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your Lordships please to gie them!
But hear, my Lord! G**** hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, an' bailies,
I canna say but they do gailies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birsies;
Yet, while they're only poin'd and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highlan' spirit:
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour, Let wark an' hunger make them sober!
The hizzies, if their oughtlins faussont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives, an' dirty brats
Come thiggan at your doors an' yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds, and grey wi' beese,
Frightan awa' your deucks and geese;
Get out a horse-whip, or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar
the tatter'd gipsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you!
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right hand assign'd your seat,
"Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate,—
Or, if ye on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro an' Pizarro;
A seat, I'm sure you're weel deservin't;
An' till
ye come-your humble servant,
ORIGINAL LETTER AND POEM.
(No date, but supposed November or December, 1787.)
THE inclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion, last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two
of next morning's sleep, but did not please me; so it lay by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of subjects are much hackneyed; and, besides the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great, are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my Muse's fire; however, I have done the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring that I have the honour to be, Sir, your much obliged humble servant,
Monday Morning.
To Charles Hay, Esq. Advocate.
LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down foam the rivulets, red with dashing rains;
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds and wintry-swelling waves;
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly,
Where, to the whistling blast, and waters' roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd and sway'd her rod;
She heard the tidings of the fatal blow,
And sunk abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men.
See, from his cavern, grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times:
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way;
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Misery pours th' unpity'd wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, Inspire and sooth my melancholy strains! Ye tempests rage! ye turbid torrents roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul: Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign; Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, To mourn the woes my country must endure, That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.
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