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But when time has swell'd the grapes to a richer style of shapes,
And the sun has lent warmth to their blushes,

Then to cheer us and to gladden, to enchant us and to madden,
Is the ripe ruddy glory that rushes.

Ah me!

Oh 'tis then that mortals pant, while they gaze on Bacchus' plant-
Oh! 'tis then-will my simile serve ye!

Should a damsel fair repine, tho' neglected like a vine?
Both ere long shall turn heads topsy-turvy.

Ah me!

We had scarcely finished the speech, in which we proposed the health of the Standard-bearer, when our eye dropt upon the physiognomy of the Bishop of Bristol, evidently in a fit of deep abstraction. His broad forehead was drawn down into his face with a complexity of deep indented furrows; his under lip was lifted close to his nostrils; and his eyes were dilated like those of Parasina in the Judgment Hall, resting with the gaze of a Newton upon some invisible point in the vacant air around him. From what delightful or dreadful dream our laugh (for we could not repress it), withdrew the wondering phantasy of the illustrious Bishop, we cannot pretend to offer any conjecture. "I'm not absent, nae mair nor yoursel, Mr. Chairman," were the first words he uttered. "I was only just casting about for a verse or two that I cannot remember, of a sang that I was thinking to offer you-I canno bring them up, however-but no matter, there's a gay twa-three as it is." The Bishop's volunteer was greeted with tremendous acclamation; and having hummed the air for about a minute, and ordered us all to join the chorus—in a low plaintive voice, broken, without doubt, by the intensity of many painful recollections, he thus began,

CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT. *

By JAMES SCOTT, Esq.

1.

TOUCH once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed,
For a prince of good old fellows, that, alack a-day! is dead;

For a prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also,

That has left the Saltmarket | in sorrow, grief, and woe.

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

2.

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches, were all cut off the same web,

Of a beautiful snuff-color, or a modest genty drab;

The blue stripe in his stocking | round his neat slim leg did go,

And his ruffles of the Cambric fine | they were whiter than the snow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

* Captain Paton's Lament, which has been a popular song in Scotland since it first was chanted in the Tent, was written by Mr. Lockhart.-M.

1819.]

THE BISHOP'S CHANT.

3.

127

His hair was curled in order, at the rising of the sun,

In comely rows and buckles smart | that about his ears did run;
And before there was a toupeé | that some inches up did grow,
And behind there was a long queue | that did o'er his shoulders flow.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

4.

And whenever we foregathered, he took off his wee three-cockit,
And he proffered you his snuff-box, which he drew from his side pocket,
And on Burdett or Bonaparte, he would make a remark or so,
And then along the plainstones like a provost he would go.

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

5.

In dirty days he picked well | his footsteps with his rattan,

Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck on the shoes of Captain Paton;
And on entering the Coffee-room | about two, all men did know,
They would see him with his Courier | in the middle of the row.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

6.

Now and then upon a Sunday | he invited me to dine,

On a herring and a mutton-chop | which his maid dressed very fine:
There was also a little Malmsey, and a bottle of Bourdeaux,
Which between me and the Captain passed nimbly to and fro.

Oh! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!

7.

Or if a bowl was mentioned, the Captain he would ring,

And bid Nelly run to the West-port, and a stoup of water bring;
Then would he mix the genuine stuff, as they made it long ago,
With limes that on his property in Trinidad did grow.

Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo!

8.

And then all the time he would discourse | so sensible and courteous,
Perhaps talking of the last sermon | he had heard from Dr. Porteous,
Or some little bit of scandal about Mrs so and so,

Which he scarce could credit, having heard | the con but not the pro.
Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!

9.

Or when the candles were brought forth, and the night was fairly setting in, He would tell some fine old stories about Minden-field or Dettingen

How he fought with a French major, and despatched him at a blow,

While his blood ran out like water on the soft grass below.

Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!

10.

But at last the Captain sickened and grew worse from day to day,
And all missed him in the Coffee-room from which now he stayed away;
On Sabbaths, too, the Wee Kirk | made a melancholy show,

All for wanting of the presence of our venerable beau.

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

11.

And in spite of all that Cleghorn and Corkindale could do,

It was plain, from twenty symptoms that death was in his view;
So the Captain made his test'ment, and submitted to his foe,

And we layed him by the Rams-horn-kirk-'tis the way we all must go.
Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

12.

Join all in chorus, jolly boys, and let punch and tears be shed,
For this prince of good old fellows, that alack a-day! is dead;
For this prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also,
That has left the Saltmarket in sorrow, grief, and woe!

For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

At the conclusion of this song, which, to those who know the voice, taste, and execution of the gentleman who sung it, we need not say gave general delight, Prince Leopold, who had attentively listened to it with the most gracious smile, arose, and saying, “that it was wise for friends to part in a mirthful moment," with the utmost benignity bade us all farewell. At this very moment, Mr. Tims (who was long ere now as bowsy as a fly in a plate of "quassia,") jumped upon his chair in order to attract our notice, and insisted upon singing "SCOTS WHA HAE WI' WALLACE BLED;" but the Shepherd frowned with such a deadly darkness at the suggestion, that the Cockney lost not a moment in resuming his former posture. Aye, aye, that's richt," said the Shepherd, "saufus only to think o’ ROBERT THE BRUCE acted by TIMS !"

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As our Illustrious Visitor and his Noble Friends withdrew, the pipes slowly and solemnly played "Farewell to Lochaber;" and our Tent seemed, at their departure, quite melancholy and forlorn. soon retired to repose, but not to sleep; for all night long the Highland host kept playing their martial or mournful tunes, and the voices of distant ages seemed, in the solitary silence of the midnight desert, restored to the world of life. We felt, that with such a glorious day our reign in the Highlands nobly terminated, and we gave orders by sunrise to strike the Tent, exclaiming, in the words of Milton,—

"TO-MORROW FOR FRESH FIELDS AND PASTURES NEW.”

Loctes Ambrosianae.

NO. I.-MARCH, 1822.

CHRISTOPHER NORTH, Esquire, solus.

Enter Ensign MORGAN ODOHERTY.

Editor. I am glad to see you, Odoherty. I am heartily glad of the interruption. I won't write any more to-night.—I'll be shot if I write a word more. Ebony may jaw as he pleases. The Number will do well enough as it is. If there is not enough, let him send his devil into the Balaam-box.*

Odoherty. I have just arrived from London.

Editor. From London ?-The Fleet, I suppose. How long have you lain there?

Odoherty. I have been out these three weeks. I suppose, for any thing you would have advanced, I might have lain there till Kingdom

come.

Editor. I can't advance money for ever, Adjutant. You have not sent me one article these four months.

Odoherty. What sort of an article do you want ?—A poem ? Editor. Poems! There's poetry enough without paying you for it. Have you seen Milman's new tragedy ?†

Odoherty. No; but I saw the proofs of a puff upon it for the next

*The Balaam-box, which is repeatedly referred to in The Noctes, was supposed to contain a variety of articles, from voluntary contributors, as well as from the usual writers in the Magazine. Mr. Blackwood received the sobriquet of Ebony from a pun upon his name, which originated in the "Chaldee Manuscript," where he was spoken of a man whose "name was as it had been the color of ebony."-M.

"The Martyr of Antioch, a dramatic poem, by the Rev. H. H. Milman," was published by John Murray, of London, in March, 1822. At that time Milman was Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. He had written a prize poem when he was an under-graduate. In 1817 he produced the tragedy of Fazio," in which Miss O'Neill sustained the part of the heroine. This play retains its place in the Acted Drama. Samor, Lord of the Bright City," a heroic poem in twelve books, appeared in 1818. "The Fall of Jerusalem," and "Anna Boleyne." were followed by "The Martyr of Antioch" and "Belshazzar." Milman has contributed largely to the Quarterly Review, edited Gibbon's Decline and Fall, and written a History of the Jews, and other serious works. He entered the Church in 1817, had a good vicarage at Reading, whence he removed to the rectory at St. Margaret's (the church which adjoins Westminster Abbey, partly concealing that stately structure from view), and was appointed Dean of St. Paul's in 1849. As a poet, Dr. Milman's reputation is even now almost traditionary. Of his dramatic works, Fazio" alone is known to the bulk of the present generation, and that from its frequent representation on the stage. Dr. Milman is now [1854] aged sixtythree.-M. 6*

Quarterly. He's a clever fellow, but they cry him too high. The report goes, that he is to step into Gifford's shoes one of these days.* Editor. That accounts for the puffing; but it will do a really clever fellow, like Milman, no good.

Odoherty. It will, Mr. North. I lustily than yourself now and then.

so much at first?

know nobody that puffs more What made you puff Procterf

Editor. It was you that puffed him. It was an article of your own, Ensign.

Odoherty. By Mahomet's mustard-pot, I've written so much, I don't remember half the things I've done in your own lubberly Magazine, and elsewhere. At one time I wrote all Day and, Martin's poetry. They were grateful. They kept the whole mess of the 44th in blacking.

Editor. Then you wrote the World, did not you?

Odoherty. I never heard of such a thing. They've been quizzing you, old boy. Impostors are abroad.

Editor. Then somebody has been sporting false colors about town. Odoherty. Like enough. Set a thief to catch a thief.

Editor. You've been writing in Colburn, they say, Master Morgan?

Odoherty. Not one line. The pretty boys have applied to me a dozen times, but I never sent them any answer except once, and then it was an epigram on themselves.

Editor. Let's hear it.

Odoherty. Now, by Jupiter! I have forgotten the beginning of it. I think it was something like this:

Colburn, Campbell, and Co. write rather so so,

But atone for 't by puff and profession

Every month gives us scope for the Pleasures of Hope,
But all ends in the Pains of Possession.

Editor. How do they get on? Heavily, Ensign ?

Odoherty. D- heavily! They lay out a cool hundred on advertisements every month; but Campbell does very little-at least so it is to be hoped-and the Subs are no great shakes. They have a

* Milman would never have done justice to the Quarterly Review;-his prose is deficient in force and terseness. The present Sir John T. Coleridge, now one of the Judges of the Queen's Bench in England, edited the Quarterly in the brief interval between Gifford's retirement and Lockhart's accession.-M.

† Procter, who was Byron's schoolfellow at Harrow, assumed the nom de plume of Barry Cornwall, when he published his first volume of Dramatic Sketches, in 1815. He wrote a tragedy called Mirandola, played in 1821, at Covent Garden Theatre. Marcian Colonna, The Flood of Thessaly, a Life of Edmund Kean (v. aich was severely criticised in Blackwood), and a variety of songs, many of which are admirable, complete the list of his writings-except his magazine articles, which have been collected in this country (but not yet in England), and published as his "Essays and Tales in Prose." As a song-writer, vigorous, yet delicate, in thought and expression, Procter has won a name "the world will not willingly let die."-M. Campbell, the poet, edited Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, from 1821 to 1831, at £500 per annum, with separate payment, as a contributor, for all articles by himself. This im

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