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The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction nae words can express.


An Occasional Address.

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.

WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,

The fate of empires and the fall of kings;

While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection,
One sacred Right of Woman is protection.—
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right-but needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it-'tis decorum.-
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days,
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways,
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men-and you are all well-bred-
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest;
Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs;
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares,
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms—
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;

Let Majesty your first attention summon,


SWEET naïveté of feature,

Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning Nature, torturing art;

Loves and Graces all rejected,

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.


Dost thou not rise, indignant shade,
And smile wi' spurning scorn,

When they wha wad hae starved thy life, Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae,
Wi' meikle honest toil,

And claught th' unfading garland there-
Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.

And wear it there! and call aloud
This axiom undoubted-

Would thou hae Nobles' patronage?
First learn to live without it!

To whom hae much, more shall be given,
Is every Great man's faith;
But he, the helpless, needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite he hath.


DUNCAN GRAY cam' here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule-night when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his e'en baith blear't an' blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and Chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Shall I like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Meg grew sick, as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings:

And oh her een they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't:
Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling Pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing ot:


HERE'S a health to them tha's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause,
May never gude luck be their fa'!

It's gude to be merry and wise,

It's gude to be honest and true;

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause,
And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to Charlie' the chief o' the clan,
Altho' that his band be but sma'!

May Liberty meet wi' success!

May Prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine i' the mist, And wander their way to the devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Tammie,' the Norlan' laddie,
That lives at the lug o' the law!
Here's freedom to them that wad read,

Here's freedom to them that wad write,

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be heard,

But they whom the truth would indite.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

An' here's to them that's awa!

Here's to Maitland and Wycombe, let wha doesna

like 'em

Be built in a hole in the wa';

Here's timmer that's red at the heart

Here's fruit that is sound at the core;

And may he be that wad turn the buff and blue coat Be turn'd to the back o' the door.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw;
Here's friends on baith sides o' the firth,

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed;
And wha wad betray old Albion's right,
May they never eat of her bread!

1 Charles James Fox. 2 Hon. Thos. Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine.

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