speech,
O let his neighbour make a rent
And put one in his breech.
O Lowther how much better thou
Hadst figur’d t’ other day
When to the folks thou mad’st a bow
And hadst no more to say.
If lucky Gadfly had but ta’en
His seat …
And put thee to a little pain
To save thee from a worse.
Better than Southey it had been,
Better than Mr. D⸺
Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween,
Better than Mr. V⸺.
Forgive me, pray, good people all,
For deviating so—
In spirit sure I had a call—
And now I on will go.
Has any here a daughter fair
Too fond of reading novels,
Too apt to fall in love with care
And charming Mister Lovels,
O put a Gadfly to that thing
She keeps so white and pert—
I mean the finger for the ring,
And it will breed a wort.
Has any here a pious spouse
Who seven times a day
Scolds as King David pray’d, to chouse
And have her holy way—
O let a Gadfly’s little sting
Persuade her sacred tongue
That noises are a common thing,
But that her bell has rung.
And as this is the summum bo-
num of all conquering,
I leave “withouten wordes mo”
The Gadfly’s little sting.
Ah! ken ye what I met the day
Out oure the Mountains
A coming down by craggies gray
An mossie fountains—
Ah goud-hair’d Marie yeve I pray
Ane minute’s guessing—
For that I met upon the way
Is past expressing.
As I stood where a rocky brig
A torrent crosses
I spied upon a misty rig
A troup o’ Horses—
And as they trotted down the glen
I sped to meet them
To see if I might know the Men
To stop and greet them.
First Willie on his sleek mare came
At canting gallop,
His long hair rustled like a flame
On board a shallop,
Then came his brother Rab and then
Young Peggy’s Mither
And Peggy too—adown the glen
They went togither—
I saw her wrappit in her hood
Frae wind and raining—
Her cheek was flush wi’ timid blood
Twixt growth and waning—
She turn’d her dazed eyes full oft
For there her Brithers
Came riding with her Bridegroom soft
And mony ithers.
Young Tarn came up and eyed me quick
With reddened cheek—
Braw Tom was daffed like a chick—
He couldna speak—
Ah, Marie, they are all gane hame
Through blustering weather
An’ every heart is full on flame
An’ light as feather.
Ah! Marie, they are all gone hame
Frae happy wadding,
Whilst I—Ah is it not a shame?
Sad tears am shedding.
On Hearing the Bag-Pipe and Seeing “The Stranger” Played at Inverary
Of late two dainties were before me plac’d
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Gods might know my own particular taste:
First the soft Bag-pipe mourn’d with zealous haste,
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
Sigh’d; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away—
O Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst charm—
O Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway—
Again thou. Stranger, gav’st me fresh alarm—
Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart
Mum chance art thou with both oblig’d to part.
Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis
After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years of age and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this Mountain some few years ago—true she had her servants—but then she had herself. She ought to have hired Sisyphus—“Up the high hill he heaves a huge round—Mrs. Cameron.” ’Tis said a little conversation took place between the mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass of Whisky as she was tolerably seated at ease she thus began—
Upon my life Sir Nevis I am piqued
That I have so far panted tugg’d and reek’d
To do an honor to your old bald pate
And now am sitting on you just to bait,
Without your paying me one compliment.
Alas, ’tis so with all, when our intent
Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind
We fair ones show a preference, too blind!
You Gentle man immediately turn tail—
O let me then my hapless fate bewail!
Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain’d
The pleasant Valleys—have I not madbrain’d
Deserted all my Pickles and preserves
My China closet too—with wretched Nerves
To boot—say, wretched ingrate, have I not
Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot?
’Tis true I had no corns—no! thank the fates
My Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates.
And if not Mr. Bates why I’m not old!
Still dumb ungrateful Nevis—still so cold!
Here the Lady took some more whisky and was putting even more to her lips when she dashed it to the Ground, for the Mountain began to grumble—which continued for a few minutes before he thus began—
What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus dares
Disturb my slumber of a thousand years?
Even so long my sleep has been secure—
And to be so awak’d I’ll not endure.
Oh pain—for since the Eagle’s earliest scream
I’ve had a damn’d confounded ugly dream,
A Nightmare sure. What! Madam, was it you?
It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!
Red-Crag, my Spectacles! Now let me see!
Good Heavens! Lady, how the gemini
Did you get here? O, I shall split my sides!
I shall earthquake—
Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love
Your honest Countenance all things above,
Truly I should not like to be convey’d
So far into your Bosom—gentle Maid
Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle Sir—
Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir
No, not a Stone, or I shall go in fits—
I must—I shall—I meet not such tit bits—
I meet not such sweet creatures every day—
By my old nightcap night and day
I must have one sweet Buss—I must and shall!
Red Crag!—What! Madam, can you then repent
Of all the toil and vigour you have spent
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?
Red Crag I say! O I must have them close!
Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe
A vein of Sulphur—go, dear
