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'Tis thy trusty quondam Mate,
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate;
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.


And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here!

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,

While down the wretched Vital Part is

driven !

The cave-lodged Beggar, with a conscience clear,

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven.


DAUGHTER of Chaos' doting years,
Nurse of ten thousand hopes and fears,
Whether thy airy, unsubstantial shade
(The rights of sepulture now duly paid)
Spread abroad its hideous form
On the roaring civil storm,

Deafening din and warring rage
Factions wild with factions wage;
Or under-ground,

Deep-sunk, profound,

Among the demons of the earth,

With groans that make

The mountains shake,

Thou mourn thy ill-starred, blighted birth;
Or in the uncreated Void,

Where seeds of future being fight,
With lessen'd step thou wander wide,

To greet thy Mother-Ancient Night.
And as each jarring, monster-mass is past,
Fond recollect what once thou wast:
In manner due, beneath this sacred oak,
Hear, Spirit, hear! thy presence I invoke!
By a Monarch's heaven-struck fate,
By a disunited State,

By a generous Prince's wrongs,
By a Senate's strife of


By a Premier's sullen pride,
Louring on the changing tide;
By dread Thurlow's powers to awe
Rhetoric, blasphemy and law;
By the turbulent ocean-
A Nation's commotion,
By the harlot-caresses
Of borough addresses,
By days few and evil,
(Thy portion, poor devil!)
By Power, Wealth, and Show,
(The Gods by men adored,)
By nameless Poverty,

(Their hell abhorred,)

By all they hope, by all they fear,
Hear! and Appear!

Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power!
Nor, grim with chained defiance lour:
No Babel-structure would I build

Where, order exil'd from his native sway,
Confusion may the regent-sceptre wield,
While all would rule and none obey.


The King's recovery

Go, to the world of man relate
The story of thy sad, eventful fate;
And call presumptuous Hope to hear
And bid him check his blind career;
And tell the sore-prest sons of Care,
Never, never to despair!

Paint Charles's speed on wings of fire,
The object of his fond desire,
Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand :
Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band;
Mark how they lift the joy-exulting voice,
And how their num'rous creditors rejoice;
But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise,
Cry CONVALESCENCE! and the vision flies.

Then next pourtray a dark'ning twilight gloom,
Eclipsing sad a gay, rejoicing morn,
While proud Ambition to th' untimely tamb
By gnashing, grim, despairing fiends is


Paint ruin, in the shape of high D[undas]
Gaping with giddy terror o'er the brow;
In vain he struggles, the fates behind him press,
And clam'rous hell yawns for her prey below:
How fallen That, whose pride late scaled the

And This, like Lucifer, no more to rise!

Again pronounce the powerful word ;
See Day, triumphant from the night, restored.

Then know this truth, ye Sons of Men!
(Thus ends thy moral tale,)

Your darkest terrors may be vain,

Your brightest hopes may fail.




AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,

How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
And in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly :
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce


pray and ponder butt the house;

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown an' Boston,
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel groan :
Already I begin to try it,

To cast my e'en up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.



Old acquaint


My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an' wale of honest men :
When bending down wi' auld
grey hairs
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfort him ;
His worthy fam❜ly far and near,

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason-billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,

An' her kind stars hae airted till her
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects, I sen' it,
To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet :

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;

To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.

An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,

May guardian angels tak a spell,

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heaven's glory,
May ye get mony a merry story,

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