By an Enchanter Unknown.
The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar,Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain,And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied.Leyden.
The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar,Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain,And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied.Leyden.
The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar,Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain,And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied.Leyden.
The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar,
Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain,
And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain;
But what the niggard ground of wealth denied,
From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied.
Leyden.
The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all,The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall,The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks,Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks;Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone,They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the lawHad tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw;Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt,In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built;Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay,They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort;They widened its loopholes, and opened its court;They put in sash-windows where none were before,And they wrote the word 'Bank' o'er the new-painted door;The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay,And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.They shot him from far and they shot him from near,And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thievesWhen they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves;But craft undermined what force battered in vain,And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold;To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land,Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life;They reap without sowing, they win without strife:The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.
The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all,The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall,The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks,Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks;Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone,They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the lawHad tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw;Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt,In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built;Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay,They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort;They widened its loopholes, and opened its court;They put in sash-windows where none were before,And they wrote the word 'Bank' o'er the new-painted door;The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay,And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.They shot him from far and they shot him from near,And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thievesWhen they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves;But craft undermined what force battered in vain,And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold;To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land,Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life;They reap without sowing, they win without strife:The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.
The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all,The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall,The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks,Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks;Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone,They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.
The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all,
The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall,
The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks,
Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks;
Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone,
They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.
When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the lawHad tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw;Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt,In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built;Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay,They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.
When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the law
Had tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw;
Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt,
In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built;
Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay,
They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.
They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort;They widened its loopholes, and opened its court;They put in sash-windows where none were before,And they wrote the word 'Bank' o'er the new-painted door;The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay,And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.
They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort;
They widened its loopholes, and opened its court;
They put in sash-windows where none were before,
And they wrote the word 'Bank' o'er the new-painted door;
The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay,
And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.
They shot him from far and they shot him from near,And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thievesWhen they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves;But craft undermined what force battered in vain,And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.
They shot him from far and they shot him from near,
And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:
Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thieves
When they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves;
But craft undermined what force battered in vain,
And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.
Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold;To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land,Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.
Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!
The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold;
To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land,
Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:
A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,
The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.
The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life;They reap without sowing, they win without strife:The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.
The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life;
They reap without sowing, they win without strife:
The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,
But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;
And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,
On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.
By S. T. C., Esq., Professor of Mysticism.
Σκιᾶς ὄναρ.—Pindar.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three,On a brilliant night of June:They carried a net, and their hearts were setOn fishing up the moon.The sea was calm, the air was balm,Not a breath stirred low or high,And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below,And as round as in the sky.The wise men with the current went,Nor paddle nor oar had they,And still as the grave they went on the wave,That they might not disturb their prey.Far, far at sea, were the wise men three,When their fishing-net they threw;And at the throw, the moon belowIn a thousand fragments flew.The sea was bright with the dancing lightOf a million million gleams,Which the broken moon shot forth as soonAs the net disturbed her beams.They drew in their net: it was empty and wet,And they had lost their pain,Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray,And the image was round again.Three times they threw, three times they drew,And all the while were mute;And evermore their wonder grew,Till they could not but dispute.Their silence they broke, and each one spokeFull long, and loud, and clear;A man at sea their voices threeFull three leagues off might hear.The three wise men got home againTo their children and their wives:But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip,They disputed all their lives.The wise men three could never agree,Why they missed the promised boon;They agreed alone that their net they had thrown,And they had not caught the moon.I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale,And its sense I could not ken;But now I see that the wise men threeWere paper-money men.'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,'Is a mystic burthen old,Which I've pondered about till my fire went out,And I could not sleep for cold.I now divine each mystic sign,Which robbed me oft of sleep,Three men in a bowl, who went to troll,For the moon in the midnight deep.Three men were they who science drankFrom Scottish fountains free;Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank,Was the moon beneath the sea.The breaking of the imaged moon,At the fishing-net's first splash,Was the breaking of the bank as soonAs the wise men claimed their cash.The dispute which lasted all their lives,Was the economic strife,Which the son's son's son of every oneWill maintain through all his life.The son's son's sons will baffled be,As were their sires of old;But they only agree, like the wise men three,That they could not get their gold.And they'll build systems dark and deep,And systems broad and high;But two of three will never agreeAbout the reason why.And he who at this day will seekThe Economic Club,Will find at least three sages there,As ready as any that ever wereTo go to sea in a tub.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three,On a brilliant night of June:They carried a net, and their hearts were setOn fishing up the moon.The sea was calm, the air was balm,Not a breath stirred low or high,And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below,And as round as in the sky.The wise men with the current went,Nor paddle nor oar had they,And still as the grave they went on the wave,That they might not disturb their prey.Far, far at sea, were the wise men three,When their fishing-net they threw;And at the throw, the moon belowIn a thousand fragments flew.The sea was bright with the dancing lightOf a million million gleams,Which the broken moon shot forth as soonAs the net disturbed her beams.They drew in their net: it was empty and wet,And they had lost their pain,Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray,And the image was round again.Three times they threw, three times they drew,And all the while were mute;And evermore their wonder grew,Till they could not but dispute.Their silence they broke, and each one spokeFull long, and loud, and clear;A man at sea their voices threeFull three leagues off might hear.The three wise men got home againTo their children and their wives:But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip,They disputed all their lives.The wise men three could never agree,Why they missed the promised boon;They agreed alone that their net they had thrown,And they had not caught the moon.I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale,And its sense I could not ken;But now I see that the wise men threeWere paper-money men.'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,'Is a mystic burthen old,Which I've pondered about till my fire went out,And I could not sleep for cold.I now divine each mystic sign,Which robbed me oft of sleep,Three men in a bowl, who went to troll,For the moon in the midnight deep.Three men were they who science drankFrom Scottish fountains free;Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank,Was the moon beneath the sea.The breaking of the imaged moon,At the fishing-net's first splash,Was the breaking of the bank as soonAs the wise men claimed their cash.The dispute which lasted all their lives,Was the economic strife,Which the son's son's son of every oneWill maintain through all his life.The son's son's sons will baffled be,As were their sires of old;But they only agree, like the wise men three,That they could not get their gold.And they'll build systems dark and deep,And systems broad and high;But two of three will never agreeAbout the reason why.And he who at this day will seekThe Economic Club,Will find at least three sages there,As ready as any that ever wereTo go to sea in a tub.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three,On a brilliant night of June:They carried a net, and their hearts were setOn fishing up the moon.
In a bowl to sea went wise men three,
On a brilliant night of June:
They carried a net, and their hearts were set
On fishing up the moon.
The sea was calm, the air was balm,Not a breath stirred low or high,And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below,And as round as in the sky.
The sea was calm, the air was balm,
Not a breath stirred low or high,
And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below,
And as round as in the sky.
The wise men with the current went,Nor paddle nor oar had they,And still as the grave they went on the wave,That they might not disturb their prey.
The wise men with the current went,
Nor paddle nor oar had they,
And still as the grave they went on the wave,
That they might not disturb their prey.
Far, far at sea, were the wise men three,When their fishing-net they threw;And at the throw, the moon belowIn a thousand fragments flew.
Far, far at sea, were the wise men three,
When their fishing-net they threw;
And at the throw, the moon below
In a thousand fragments flew.
The sea was bright with the dancing lightOf a million million gleams,Which the broken moon shot forth as soonAs the net disturbed her beams.
The sea was bright with the dancing light
Of a million million gleams,
Which the broken moon shot forth as soon
As the net disturbed her beams.
They drew in their net: it was empty and wet,And they had lost their pain,Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray,And the image was round again.
They drew in their net: it was empty and wet,
And they had lost their pain,
Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray,
And the image was round again.
Three times they threw, three times they drew,And all the while were mute;And evermore their wonder grew,Till they could not but dispute.
Three times they threw, three times they drew,
And all the while were mute;
And evermore their wonder grew,
Till they could not but dispute.
Their silence they broke, and each one spokeFull long, and loud, and clear;A man at sea their voices threeFull three leagues off might hear.
Their silence they broke, and each one spoke
Full long, and loud, and clear;
A man at sea their voices three
Full three leagues off might hear.
The three wise men got home againTo their children and their wives:But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip,They disputed all their lives.
The three wise men got home again
To their children and their wives:
But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip,
They disputed all their lives.
The wise men three could never agree,Why they missed the promised boon;They agreed alone that their net they had thrown,And they had not caught the moon.
The wise men three could never agree,
Why they missed the promised boon;
They agreed alone that their net they had thrown,
And they had not caught the moon.
I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale,And its sense I could not ken;But now I see that the wise men threeWere paper-money men.
I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale,
And its sense I could not ken;
But now I see that the wise men three
Were paper-money men.
'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,'Is a mystic burthen old,Which I've pondered about till my fire went out,And I could not sleep for cold.
'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,'
Is a mystic burthen old,
Which I've pondered about till my fire went out,
And I could not sleep for cold.
I now divine each mystic sign,Which robbed me oft of sleep,Three men in a bowl, who went to troll,For the moon in the midnight deep.
I now divine each mystic sign,
Which robbed me oft of sleep,
Three men in a bowl, who went to troll,
For the moon in the midnight deep.
Three men were they who science drankFrom Scottish fountains free;Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank,Was the moon beneath the sea.
Three men were they who science drank
From Scottish fountains free;
Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank,
Was the moon beneath the sea.
The breaking of the imaged moon,At the fishing-net's first splash,Was the breaking of the bank as soonAs the wise men claimed their cash.
The breaking of the imaged moon,
At the fishing-net's first splash,
Was the breaking of the bank as soon
As the wise men claimed their cash.
The dispute which lasted all their lives,Was the economic strife,Which the son's son's son of every oneWill maintain through all his life.
The dispute which lasted all their lives,
Was the economic strife,
Which the son's son's son of every one
Will maintain through all his life.
The son's son's sons will baffled be,As were their sires of old;But they only agree, like the wise men three,That they could not get their gold.
The son's son's sons will baffled be,
As were their sires of old;
But they only agree, like the wise men three,
That they could not get their gold.
And they'll build systems dark and deep,And systems broad and high;But two of three will never agreeAbout the reason why.
And they'll build systems dark and deep,
And systems broad and high;
But two of three will never agree
About the reason why.
And he who at this day will seekThe Economic Club,Will find at least three sages there,As ready as any that ever wereTo go to sea in a tub.
And he who at this day will seek
The Economic Club,
Will find at least three sages there,
As ready as any that ever were
To go to sea in a tub.
WHICH WILL SHORTLY APPEAR IN QUARTO, UNDER THE TITLE OF
By R. S., Esq., Poet Laureate.
His promises were, as he once was, mighty;And his performance, as he is now, nothing.Shakespeare:Henry VIII., Act IV., Sc. ii.
His promises were, as he once was, mighty;And his performance, as he is now, nothing.Shakespeare:Henry VIII., Act IV., Sc. ii.
His promises were, as he once was, mighty;And his performance, as he is now, nothing.Shakespeare:Henry VIII., Act IV., Sc. ii.
His promises were, as he once was, mighty;
And his performance, as he is now, nothing.
Shakespeare:Henry VIII., Act IV., Sc. ii.
How troublesome is day!It calls us from our sleep away;It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,And sends us forth to keep or breakOur promises to pay.How troublesome is day!Now listen to my lay;Much have I said,Which few have heard or read,And much have I to say,Which hear ye while ye may.Come listen to my lay,Come, for ye know me, as a manWho always praises, as he can,All promisers to pay.So they and I on terms agree,And they but keep their faith with me,Whate'er their deeds to others be,They may to the minutest particleCommand my fingers for an ode or article.Come listen while I strike the Epic string,And, as a changeful song I sing,Before my eyesBid changeful Proteus rise,Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.Come listen to my lay,While I the wild and wondrous tale array,How Fly-by-Night went down,And set a bank up in a country town;How like a king his head he reared;And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;And how one night he disappeared,When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;And many an old man rent his beard;And many a young man cursed and railed;And many a woman wept and wailed;And many a mighty heart was quailed;And many a wretch was caged and gaoled:Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.And many a miserable sinnerWent without his Sunday dinner,Because he had not metal bright,And waved in vain before the butcher's sightThe promises of Fly-by-Night.And little Jackey HornerSat sulking in the corner,And in default of Christmas pieWhereon his little thumb to try,He put his finger in his eye,And blubbered long and lustily.Come listen to my lay,And ye shall say,That never tale of errant knight,Or captive damsel bright,Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,Or cloistral phantom all in white,Or castle or accessless height,Upreared by necromantic might,Was half so full of rare delight,As this whereof I now prolong,The memory in immortal song—The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.
How troublesome is day!It calls us from our sleep away;It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,And sends us forth to keep or breakOur promises to pay.How troublesome is day!Now listen to my lay;Much have I said,Which few have heard or read,And much have I to say,Which hear ye while ye may.Come listen to my lay,Come, for ye know me, as a manWho always praises, as he can,All promisers to pay.So they and I on terms agree,And they but keep their faith with me,Whate'er their deeds to others be,They may to the minutest particleCommand my fingers for an ode or article.Come listen while I strike the Epic string,And, as a changeful song I sing,Before my eyesBid changeful Proteus rise,Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.Come listen to my lay,While I the wild and wondrous tale array,How Fly-by-Night went down,And set a bank up in a country town;How like a king his head he reared;And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;And how one night he disappeared,When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;And many an old man rent his beard;And many a young man cursed and railed;And many a woman wept and wailed;And many a mighty heart was quailed;And many a wretch was caged and gaoled:Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.And many a miserable sinnerWent without his Sunday dinner,Because he had not metal bright,And waved in vain before the butcher's sightThe promises of Fly-by-Night.And little Jackey HornerSat sulking in the corner,And in default of Christmas pieWhereon his little thumb to try,He put his finger in his eye,And blubbered long and lustily.Come listen to my lay,And ye shall say,That never tale of errant knight,Or captive damsel bright,Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,Or cloistral phantom all in white,Or castle or accessless height,Upreared by necromantic might,Was half so full of rare delight,As this whereof I now prolong,The memory in immortal song—The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.
How troublesome is day!It calls us from our sleep away;It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,And sends us forth to keep or breakOur promises to pay.How troublesome is day!
How troublesome is day!
It calls us from our sleep away;
It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake,
And sends us forth to keep or break
Our promises to pay.
How troublesome is day!
Now listen to my lay;Much have I said,Which few have heard or read,And much have I to say,Which hear ye while ye may.Come listen to my lay,Come, for ye know me, as a manWho always praises, as he can,All promisers to pay.So they and I on terms agree,And they but keep their faith with me,Whate'er their deeds to others be,They may to the minutest particleCommand my fingers for an ode or article.
Now listen to my lay;
Much have I said,
Which few have heard or read,
And much have I to say,
Which hear ye while ye may.
Come listen to my lay,
Come, for ye know me, as a man
Who always praises, as he can,
All promisers to pay.
So they and I on terms agree,
And they but keep their faith with me,
Whate'er their deeds to others be,
They may to the minutest particle
Command my fingers for an ode or article.
Come listen while I strike the Epic string,And, as a changeful song I sing,Before my eyesBid changeful Proteus rise,Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.
Come listen while I strike the Epic string,
And, as a changeful song I sing,
Before my eyes
Bid changeful Proteus rise,
Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.
Come listen to my lay,While I the wild and wondrous tale array,How Fly-by-Night went down,And set a bank up in a country town;How like a king his head he reared;And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;And how one night he disappeared,When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;And many an old man rent his beard;And many a young man cursed and railed;And many a woman wept and wailed;And many a mighty heart was quailed;And many a wretch was caged and gaoled:Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.And many a miserable sinnerWent without his Sunday dinner,Because he had not metal bright,And waved in vain before the butcher's sightThe promises of Fly-by-Night.And little Jackey HornerSat sulking in the corner,And in default of Christmas pieWhereon his little thumb to try,He put his finger in his eye,And blubbered long and lustily.
Come listen to my lay,
While I the wild and wondrous tale array,
How Fly-by-Night went down,
And set a bank up in a country town;
How like a king his head he reared;
And how the Coast of Cash he cleared;
And how one night he disappeared,
When many a scoffer jibed and jeered;
And many an old man rent his beard;
And many a young man cursed and railed;
And many a woman wept and wailed;
And many a mighty heart was quailed;
And many a wretch was caged and gaoled:
Because great Fly-by-Night had failed.
And many a miserable sinner
Went without his Sunday dinner,
Because he had not metal bright,
And waved in vain before the butcher's sight
The promises of Fly-by-Night.
And little Jackey Horner
Sat sulking in the corner,
And in default of Christmas pie
Whereon his little thumb to try,
He put his finger in his eye,
And blubbered long and lustily.
Come listen to my lay,And ye shall say,That never tale of errant knight,Or captive damsel bright,Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,Or cloistral phantom all in white,Or castle or accessless height,Upreared by necromantic might,Was half so full of rare delight,As this whereof I now prolong,The memory in immortal song—The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.
Come listen to my lay,
And ye shall say,
That never tale of errant knight,
Or captive damsel bright,
Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite,
Fierce crusade, or feudal fight,
Or cloistral phantom all in white,
Or castle or accessless height,
Upreared by necromantic might,
Was half so full of rare delight,
As this whereof I now prolong,
The memory in immortal song—
The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.
By T. C.
Quel chio vi debbo posso di parolePagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.Ariosto.
Quel chio vi debbo posso di parolePagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.Ariosto.
Quel chio vi debbo posso di parolePagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.Ariosto.
Quel chio vi debbo posso di parole
Pagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro.
Ariosto.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,Who live from home at ease;Who raise the wind, from year to year,In a long and strong trade breeze:Your paper kites let loose againOn all the winds that blow;Through the shout of the routLay the English ragmen low;Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,And the English ragmen low.The spirits of your fathersShall peep from every leaf;For the midnight was their noon of fame,And their prize was living beef.Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,Your paper kites shall show,That a way to conveyBetter far than theirs you know,When you launch your kites upon the windAnd raise the wind to blow.Caledonia needs no bullion,No coin in iron case;Her treasure is a bunch of ragsAnd the brass upon her face;With pellets from her paper millsShe makes the Southrons trow,That to pay her sole wayIs by promising to owe,By making promises to payWhen she only means to owe.The meteor ray of ScotlandShall float aloft like scum,Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,And the day of reckoning come:Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,Your hone-a-rie must flow,While you drink your own inkWith your old friend Nick below,While you burn your bills and singe your quillsIn his bonny fire below.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,Who live from home at ease;Who raise the wind, from year to year,In a long and strong trade breeze:Your paper kites let loose againOn all the winds that blow;Through the shout of the routLay the English ragmen low;Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,And the English ragmen low.The spirits of your fathersShall peep from every leaf;For the midnight was their noon of fame,And their prize was living beef.Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,Your paper kites shall show,That a way to conveyBetter far than theirs you know,When you launch your kites upon the windAnd raise the wind to blow.Caledonia needs no bullion,No coin in iron case;Her treasure is a bunch of ragsAnd the brass upon her face;With pellets from her paper millsShe makes the Southrons trow,That to pay her sole wayIs by promising to owe,By making promises to payWhen she only means to owe.The meteor ray of ScotlandShall float aloft like scum,Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,And the day of reckoning come:Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,Your hone-a-rie must flow,While you drink your own inkWith your old friend Nick below,While you burn your bills and singe your quillsIn his bonny fire below.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,Who live from home at ease;Who raise the wind, from year to year,In a long and strong trade breeze:Your paper kites let loose againOn all the winds that blow;Through the shout of the routLay the English ragmen low;Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,And the English ragmen low.
Ye kite-flyers of Scotland,
Who live from home at ease;
Who raise the wind, from year to year,
In a long and strong trade breeze:
Your paper kites let loose again
On all the winds that blow;
Through the shout of the rout
Lay the English ragmen low;
Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold,
And the English ragmen low.
The spirits of your fathersShall peep from every leaf;For the midnight was their noon of fame,And their prize was living beef.Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,Your paper kites shall show,That a way to conveyBetter far than theirs you know,When you launch your kites upon the windAnd raise the wind to blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall peep from every leaf;
For the midnight was their noon of fame,
And their prize was living beef.
Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell,
Your paper kites shall show,
That a way to convey
Better far than theirs you know,
When you launch your kites upon the wind
And raise the wind to blow.
Caledonia needs no bullion,No coin in iron case;Her treasure is a bunch of ragsAnd the brass upon her face;With pellets from her paper millsShe makes the Southrons trow,That to pay her sole wayIs by promising to owe,By making promises to payWhen she only means to owe.
Caledonia needs no bullion,
No coin in iron case;
Her treasure is a bunch of rags
And the brass upon her face;
With pellets from her paper mills
She makes the Southrons trow,
That to pay her sole way
Is by promising to owe,
By making promises to pay
When she only means to owe.
The meteor ray of ScotlandShall float aloft like scum,Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,And the day of reckoning come:Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,Your hone-a-rie must flow,While you drink your own inkWith your old friend Nick below,While you burn your bills and singe your quillsIn his bonny fire below.
The meteor ray of Scotland
Shall float aloft like scum,
Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack,
And the day of reckoning come:
Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers,
Your hone-a-rie must flow,
While you drink your own ink
With your old friend Nick below,
While you burn your bills and singe your quills
In his bonny fire below.
By T. M., Esq.
Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσαςὙπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ.Anacreon.
Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσαςὙπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ.Anacreon.
Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσαςὙπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ.Anacreon.
Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσας
Ὑπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ.
Anacreon.
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,Above a green vale where a paper mill played;And he hovered in ether, delightedly notingThe whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined;And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity,Rigid of limb and complacent of face,And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,'And picking his pocket with infinite grace.And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,'His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone,And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,The mill to a million of atoms was blown.Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,As light as the fly that is christened from butter,Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus,'What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.''My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them,They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true;But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.'
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,Above a green vale where a paper mill played;And he hovered in ether, delightedly notingThe whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined;And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity,Rigid of limb and complacent of face,And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,'And picking his pocket with infinite grace.And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,'His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone,And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,The mill to a million of atoms was blown.Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,As light as the fly that is christened from butter,Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus,'What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.''My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them,They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true;But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.'
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,Above a green vale where a paper mill played;And he hovered in ether, delightedly notingThe whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.
Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating,
Above a green vale where a paper mill played;
And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting
The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.
The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined;And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.
The air was all filled with the scent of the roses,
Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined;
And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses,
This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.
And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity,Rigid of limb and complacent of face,And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,'And picking his pocket with infinite grace.
And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity,
Rigid of limb and complacent of face,
And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,'
And picking his pocket with infinite grace.
And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,'His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.
And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,'
His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air,
To a song all in praise of that primitive charity,
Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone,And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,The mill to a million of atoms was blown.
But sudden a tumult arose from a distance,
And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone,
And ere the scared miller could call for assistance,
The mill to a million of atoms was blown.
Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.
Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle,
When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where;
And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle,
Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.
Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,As light as the fly that is christened from butter,Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.
Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter,
Pursuing the fragments that floated on high,
As light as the fly that is christened from butter,
Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.
'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus,'What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.'
'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus,
'What are these little talismans cyphered—One—One?
If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us,
Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.'
'My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them,They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true;But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.'
'My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them,
They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true;
But we want them not here, though I think you might know them,
Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.'
There is a fever of the spirit,The brand of Cain's unresting doom,Which in the lone dark souls that bear itGlows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb.Unlike the lamp, its subtle fireBurns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart.Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire,Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.When hope, love, life itself, are onlyDust—spectral memories—dead and cold—The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,Like that undying lamp of old;And by that drear illumination,Till time its clay-built home has rent,Thought broods on feeling's desolation—The soul is its own monument.
There is a fever of the spirit,The brand of Cain's unresting doom,Which in the lone dark souls that bear itGlows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb.Unlike the lamp, its subtle fireBurns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart.Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire,Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.When hope, love, life itself, are onlyDust—spectral memories—dead and cold—The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,Like that undying lamp of old;And by that drear illumination,Till time its clay-built home has rent,Thought broods on feeling's desolation—The soul is its own monument.
There is a fever of the spirit,The brand of Cain's unresting doom,Which in the lone dark souls that bear itGlows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb.Unlike the lamp, its subtle fireBurns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart.Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire,Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.
There is a fever of the spirit,
The brand of Cain's unresting doom,
Which in the lone dark souls that bear it
Glows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb.
Unlike the lamp, its subtle fire
Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart.
Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire,
Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.
When hope, love, life itself, are onlyDust—spectral memories—dead and cold—The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,Like that undying lamp of old;And by that drear illumination,Till time its clay-built home has rent,Thought broods on feeling's desolation—The soul is its own monument.
When hope, love, life itself, are only
Dust—spectral memories—dead and cold—
The unfed fire burns bright and lonely,
Like that undying lamp of old;
And by that drear illumination,
Till time its clay-built home has rent,
Thought broods on feeling's desolation—
The soul is its own monument.