But turns like horses in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor standing still;
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.
CCXXVII. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE,
NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.
But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this the time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
Rise up and make a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday coat.
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
He likes to see them braw.
There are twa hens upon the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.
My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My hose o' pearl blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's both leal and true.
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue;
His breath's like caller air ;
His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth I'm like to greet.
CCXXVIII. JAMES BEATTIE, 1735-1803.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
"Ah! why, all abandon'd to darkness and woe,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral,
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay.
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn:
O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away:
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.
"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays:
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again :
But man's faded glory what change shall renew!
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save:
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn!
O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"
'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betray'd,
That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
"O pity, great Father of light," then I cried,
Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away,
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn.
So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn,
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
Of chance or change O let not man complain,
Else shall he never never cease to wail :
For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain
Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,
All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale;
Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd;
Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale,
And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd
And where th' Atlanticrolls wide continents have bloom'd.
But sure to foreign climes we need not range,
Nor search the ancient records of our race,
To learn the dire effects of time and change,
Which in ourselves, alas! we daily trace.
Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face,
Or hoary hair, I never will repine:
But spare, O Time, whate'er of mental grace,
Of candour, love, or sympathy divine,
Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine!
CCXXIX. JOHN LANGHORNE, 1735-1779.
THE CHILD OF MISERY.
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery baptised in tears.
COXXX. PETER PINDAR, [DR JO. WOLCOT,] 1738-1819.
A fellow in a country town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard.
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
No matter if the fellow BE a knave,
Provided that the razors SHAVE:
It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling in heart, and soul content,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze.
'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he tried-
All were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd!
"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse!" In vain to chace his beard and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamp'd and swore Brought blood, and danc'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.
His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
“Razors !—a . . . . confounded dog—
Not fit to scrape a hog!"
Hodge sought the fellow, found him and begun,
P'rhaps, master razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster-knives.
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave.”
Friend," quoth the razor-man,
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my soul I never thought
That they WOULD SHAVE.'
"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge with wondering eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries— "Made," quoth the fellow with a smile, " to SELL."
CCXXXI. JAMES MACPHERSON, 1738-1796.
The wind is up, the field is bare,
Some hermit lead me to his cell,
Where Contemplation, lonely fair,
With blessed content has chose to dwell.
Behold! it opens to my sight,
Dark in the rock, beside the flood;
Dry fern around obstructs the light;
The winds above it move the wood.
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