'Tis not us alone, boys-the Army and Navy Have each got a slap 'mid their politic pranks; Cornwallis cashier'd, that watch'd winters to save ye, And the Cape call'd a bauble, No soldier shall want The thanks that his country to valour can give : Come, boys, Drink it off merrily,— Sir David and Popham, and long may they live! And then our revenue-Lord knows how they view'd it, While each petty statesman talk'd lofty and big; But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whitbread had brew'd it, And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig. In vain is their vaunting, Too surely there's wanting What judgment, experience, and steadiness give : Come, boys, Drink about merrily, (This song appears in the Appendix to the General Preface of Waverley, 1814.) Health to sage Melville, and long may WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, he live! Our King, too-our Princess-I dare not say more, sir, May Providence watch them with mercy and might! While there's one Scottish hand that can wag a claymore, sir, They shall ne'er want a friend to stand up for their right. Be damn'd he that dare not,For my part, I'll spare not To beauty afflicted a tribute give : Waken, lords and ladies gay, And foresters have busy been, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Louder, louder chant the lay, THE RESOLVE. (180S.) in imitation of an Old English Poem.) My wayward fate I needs must 'plain, I loved, and was beloved again, So it was quickly gone; No more I'll bask in flame so hot, Not maid more bright than maid was e'er My fancy shall beguile, By flattering word, or feigned tear, By gesture, look, or smile: No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, Till it has fairly flown, Nor scorch me at a flame so hot; I'll rather freeze alone. Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, In cheek, or chin, or brow, I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, The flaunting torch soon blazes out, Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, No waking dream shall tinge my thought With dyes so bright and vain, No more I'll pay so dear for wit, Nor shall wild passion trouble it, And thus I'll hush my heart to rest'Thy loving labour's lost; Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, To be so strangely crost; The phoenix is but one; They seek no loves, no more will I— I'll rather dwell alone.' Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, In female grace the willow droops | And, as he hears, what dear illusions her head; Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust Till waked to join the chorus of the just, Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies, Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here Seward lies; Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say, Go seek her genius in her living lay. PROLOGUE To Miss Baillie's Play of The Family Legend!' (1809.) 'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; 'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the ear; rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot, beneath whose simple porch were told, By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, The infant group, that hush'd their sports the while, And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile. The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again. Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! For she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, But far more sadly sweet, on foreign And to your own traditions tuned The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a Daughter's love. THE POACHER. (1809.) (In imitation of Crabbe.) WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats, Where health with exercise and freedom meets! Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe, Our buckskinn'd justices expound the law, Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain, And for the netted partridge noose the swain; And thy vindictive arm would fain have broke The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, To give the denizens of wood and wild, Nature's free race, to each her freeborn child. Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair London's race, Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter chase, And long'd to send them forth as free as when Pour'do'er Chantilly the Parisian train, When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, combined, And scarce the field-pieces were left behind! Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philo- A squadron's charge each leveret's Seek we yon glades, where the proud oak o'ertops Sunk 'mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel Stoop to the west, the plunderer's copse, Leaving between deserted isles ofland, Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy sand; And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, toils are done. Loaded and primed, and prompt for desperate hand, Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand; While round the hutare in disorder laid Or straggling hollies spread a brighter The tools and booty of his lawless trade; And his son's stirrup shines the badge To wait the associate higgler's evening |