Come, keenIambicks, with your Badgers' Feet,And Badger-like bite till your Teeth do meet;Help ye, Tart Satyrists, to imp my Rage,With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quoteThe Name of Scot without an Antidote,Unless my Head were red, that I might brewInvention there that might be Poison too.Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal NoteDisgorges Halters, as a Juggler's ThroatDoes Ribbons; could I in SirEmpyrick'sToneSpeak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;Or roar likeMarshal, thatGenevaBull,Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full:Yet to express aScot, to play that Prize,Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice.Before aScotcan properly be curst,I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.Scotsare like Witches; do but whet your Pen,Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.
Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to takeThe Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake,I'll bait myScotso, yet not cheat your Eyes;A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.No more let Ireland brag her harmless NationFosters no Venom since thatScots'Plantation;Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain,Since they came in England has Wolves again.Nature her self doesScotch-men Beasts confess,Making their Country such a Wilderness;A Land that brings in Question and SuspenceGod's Omnipresence but thatCharlescame thence,But thatMontroseandCrawford'sRoyal BandAton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land.Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots,There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots,As in a Picture where the Squinting PaintShews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint;He that Saw Hell in's Melancholy Dream,And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme,Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright,Had he view'd Scotland had turn'd Proselyte.A Land where one may pray with curst Intent;Oh, may they never suffer Banishment!HadCainbeenScot, God would have chant'd his Doom,Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.LikeJewsthey spread, and as Infection fly,As if the Devil had Ubiquity.Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defieThis or that Place, Rags of Geography.They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all;Scotland'sa Nation Epidemical.And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode,How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad;To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug,Or which of theDutchStates a double JugResembles most in Belly or in Beard;The Card by which the Mariners are Steer'd.No! The Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat;Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat.Nature withScotsas Tooth-drawers has dealt,Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt.Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tameThe StubbornScot: A Prince that would reclaimRebels by yielding does like him. or worse,Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse.Was it for this you left your leaner Soil,Thus to lardIsraelwithEgypt'sSpoil?Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts!How aScotchStomach and no Meat converts!They wanted Food and Raiment, so they tookReligion for their Seamstress and their Cook.Unmask them well; their Honours and Estate,As well as Conscience, are Sophisticate.Shrive but their Titles, and their Money poise;A Laird and Twenty Pence,[27] pronounc'd with Noise,When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go,And a good sober Two-pence, and well so.Hence then,'you Proud Imposters, get you gone,YouPictsin Gentry and Devotion,You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a RaceAble to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace.Hyperbolus by suffering did traduceThe Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use.TheIndianthat Heaven did forswearBecause he heard someSpaniardswere there.Had he but known whatScotsin Hell had been,He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between.My Muse has done. A voider for the Nonce;I wrong the Devil should I pick the Bones.That Dish is his, for when theScotsdecease,Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.AScot, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose,Drops intoStix, and turns aSolandGoose. [28]
[Footnote 27: Ten pence Scots was a penny English.]
[Footnote 28: Compare with this the first of the two political squibs published in the Aungervyle Reprints Series, 2.]
[Footnote: Written and composed by Roger de Lisle. This translation has been attributed to Lord Auckland.]
Ye sons of France, awake to glory;Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,Behold their tears, and hear their cries!Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,Affright and desolate the land,While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding?To arms, to arms, ye brave,Th'avenging sword unsheath;March on, march on, all hearts resolv'dOn victory or death.
Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rollingWhich treach'rous kings, confederate, raise;The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,And, lo! our fields and cities blaze;And shall we basely view the ruin,While lawless force, with guilty stride,Spreads desolation far and wide,With crimes and blood his hands embruing?To arms, ye brave, etc.
With luxury and pride surrounded,The vile insatiate despots dare,Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,To mete and vend the light and air.Like beasts of burden would they load us,Like gods, would bid their slaves adore;But man is man, and who is more?Then shall they longer lash and goad us?To arms, ye brave, etc.
O Liberty! can man resign thee,Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee,Or whips thy noble spirit tame?Too long the world has wept, bewailingThat falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;But freedom is our sword and shield,And all their arts are unavailing.To arms, ye brave, etc.
Bow the head, thou lily fair,Bow the head in mournful guise;Sickly turn thy shining white,Bend thy stalk, and never rise.
Shed thy leaves, thou lovely rose,Shed thy leaves, so sweet and gay;Spread them wide on the cold earth,Quickly let them fade away.
Fragrant woodbine, all untwine,All untwine from yonder bower;Drag thy branches on the ground,Stain with dust each tender flower,
For, woe is me! the gentle knotThat did in willing durance bindMy happy soul to hers for lifeBy cruel death is now untwined.
Her head, with dim, half-closed eyes,Is bowed upon her breast of snow;And cold and faded are those cheeksThat wont with cheerful red to glow.
Mute, mute, is that harmonious voiceThat wont to breathe the sounds of love,And lifeless are those beauteous limbsThat with such ease and grace did move.
And I, of all my bliss bereft.Lonely and sad must ever moan,Dead to each joy the world can give,Alive to memory alone.