No. XIV.-APRIL, 1824. SCENE I.—Sky-Blue Parlor. MR. NORTH, the ETTRICK SHEPHERD, and MR. Ambrose. North. Just so-just so, Mr. Ambrose. No man sets a cushion with more gentle dexterity. As my heel sinks into the velvet, my toe forgets to twinge. Now, my dear St. Ambrosio, for l'eau médicinal! (Mr. Ambrose communicates a nutshell of Glenlivet, and exit.) Now, my dear Shepherd, let us have a "twa-handed crack." The Shepherd. What's the gout like,* Mr. North, sir? Is't like the stang o' a skep-bee? or a toothacky stoun? or a gumboil, when you touch't wi' het parritch? or a whitlow on ane's nose, thrab thrabbing a' the night through? or is't liker, in its ain way, till what ane drees after thretty miles o' a hard-trotting, barebacked beast, wi' thin breeks on ane's hurdies? North. Gentle Shepherd, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." The Shepherd. I'se warrant now, sir, that your big tae's as red as a rose in June. North. There spoke the poet-the author of the Queen's Wake. Mr. Hogg, I am happy to know that you are about to give us a new poem, Queen Hynde. Is it very fine? The Shepherd. Faith, I'm thinking it's no muckle amiss. I've had great pleasure aye in the writing o't. The words came out, helter skelter, ane after the other, head to doup, like bees frae a hive on the first glimpse o' a sunny summer morn. North. Again! Why, that is poetry, Mr. Hogg. The Shepherd. Fie shame! That's just what Mr. Jaffray said to Coleridge, when walking in the wud wi' him at Keswick. And yet what does he do a towmont or twa after, but abuse him and his genius baith, like ony tinkler, in the Embro' Review. I canna say, Mr. North, that I hate flattery, but, oh man! I fear't, and at the very time I swallow't, I keep an e'e on the tyke that administers the cordial. : * The Frenchman's idea of the difference between gout and rheumatism would answer this query :—“ You puts your fingeres in a vice and somebody does squeeze, squeeze, beyond what man can bear, dat is ze rumateeze: you get doo or dree squeeze more, and dat is ze gout.”—M; North. Queen Hynde will do, James. Tales, tales, tales, eternal prose tales-out with a poem, James. Your prose tales are but The Shepherd. What kind o' a pronunciation is that, man? North. I seldom write verses myself, now-a-days, James, but as I have not bothered you much lately by spouting MSS. as I used to do long ago, pray, be so kind as to listen to me for a few stanzas. 1. Hail, glorious dawning! hail, auspicious morn! Who love and worship thee with single heart. Hail, mighty mother, hail!—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 2. Which of you first shall press to show your love To vail your bonnet to your patron saint? I see you hasten from the earth above, And sea below, to pay your service quaint White, black and gray, in every livery decked, The stay-laced dandy, and the Belchered blood, Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 3. March in the foremost rank-'tis yours by right- Hoist the old tattered standard to the light, Of Place and Power, from which his ravening maw Dupe to himself he growls, but loud must say, Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 4. Brougham, in a hated gown of stuff,* attends, His nose up-twitching like the devil's tail. * Up to this time, although fully entitled to it by his standing at the bar, as well as high repute and large practice as a lawyer, the distinction of being made a King's Counsel (which entitles the holder to peculiar precedence at the bar) had been withheld from Brougham, by Lord Chancellor Eldon, because of the truly courageous and independent manner in which Brougham had defended Queen Caroline, in 1820-1. Ordinary (that is outer or utter) barristers wear black stuff gowns, and sit outside the bar in English courts of law. Queen's Counsel and persons holding patents of precedency sit within the bar and wear silken gowns.-M. 1824.] to ALL FOOLS DAY. There Aberdeen her learnit Ractor sends, Of bloody gemmen of the press had slain, Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 5. Wise Hutchinson, and Wiser Peter Moore, Whose freedom is their toast in bumpers full, Fudge Tommy Moore, and actioning John Bull. Shout, my old Coke!-shout, Albemarle !-shout, Grey! 6. Apt are the emblems which the party shows- And "Angoulême has touched his hilt in vain," And "Chaste art thou, O Queen! as snow ere dawn," But shining over all, in alt still say, Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 7. Close by their tails see Jeff's reviewers sneak In buff and blue, an antiquated gang; Jeffrey himself with penny-trumpet squeak, Chimes with Jackpudding Sydney's jews-harp twang; And there Macculloch bellows, gallant stot, 403 *Michael Angelo Taylor was a member of Parliament, wealthy, and with his residence very near the then St. Stephen's Chapel, in which the Commons used to sit. From 4 o'clock every day, until 12 at night, Taylor kept open house for such members of the Opposition as pleased eat, drink, and be merry." On one occasion, when Lord Durham (then Mr. Lambton) had brought in a bill-either for Catholic Emancipation or Parliamentary Reform-most of the Opposition had retired to take refreshments, at Taylor's, during Lambton's speech, and a tough debate and strong struggle was; expected the Government declined making a speech in reply, forcing on a division, before the other party could be collected from Taylor's "cutlets and gin-twist," and negatived the question, for that session, by a sudden vote. This trick was much complained of, by the Liberals, for a long time.-M. + Mrs. Olive Serres claimed to be the legitimate daughter of Henry Frederick, Duke of Cumberland, (brother to George III.,) by a marriage with Miss Wilmot. She assumed the rank and title of Princess Olive of Cumberland, and had her case brought before Parliament, where her claims were not recognised. This was in 1822, and most of her remaining years were spent within the rules of a prison, for debt. She died in 1834.-M. And Christian Leslie, to whom is set A bust of stone in Stockbridge shady grot. In puppy chorus yelps the full array, Hail, mighty mother, hail!—hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 8. Still impudent their gestures-still their mien Graven on each brow disorder and defeat; Rings "kling-ling-ling," bedraggling at their tail! Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 9. Whom have we next?-I note the gesture trim, Thou and thy subject tribes have trolled so long? Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 10. For the remainder of this rabble rout, Their names I know not, nor desire to know. To send so sweet a poet 'twere too hard, To the chaise-percée of old Pluto's queen. Singing, hail, mother, hail!-hail, glorious ALL FOOLS' day! 11. Make way, make way, in plenitude of paunch, In measuring speech or gingham by the ell, * Alderman Waithman, who was a strong Liberal, carried on the business of a linen-draper in the premises, corner of Fleet-street and Bridge-street, Blackfriars, now partly occupied by the Sunday Times newspaper office. He filled the office of Lord Mayor, and was elected four times to represent the city of London in Parliament. After his death, his friends erected an obelisk, in his honor, opposite that raised in commemoration of John Wilkes, at the foot of Ludgate Hill, and within view of the place where he long had kept a shop.-M. Worthy alike of poet's lofty rhyme, The stuff you utter, and the stuff you sell! Sing with that voice which can e'en kings dismay, Hail, mighty mother, hail!-hail, April ALL FOOLS' day! 405 The Shephed. That'll do-Ohe! jam satis. I ken naething about tae half o' the chiels, and the little I do ken about the lave is na worth kenning. But the verses sound weel, and seem fu' o' satire. They'll no be popular, though, about Ettrick. North. I must occasionally consult the taste of the people in London, and the neighboring villages. They are fond of their little local jeers, and attach mighty importance to men and things, that in the Forest, James, are considered in the light of their own native insignifi cance. The Shepherd. That's God's truth! In London you'll hear a soun', like laigh thunder, frae a million voices, growl-growling on ae subject, for aiblins a week thegither; a' else is clean forgotten, and the fate o’ the world seems to hang on the matter in han' ;--but just wait you till the tips o' the horns o' the new moon hae sprouted, and the puir silly craturs recollec' naething ava', either o' their ain fear, or their ain folly, and are aff on anither scent, as idle and thochtless as before. In the kintra, we are o' a wiser, and doucer, and dourer nature; we fasten our feelings rather on the durable hills, than on the fleeting cluds; tomorrow kens something about yesterday, and the fifty-twa weeks in year dinna march by like isolated individuals; but like a company strongly mustered, and on an expedition or enterprise o' pith and moment. North. So with books. In a city they are read-flung aside—and forgotten like the dead. the The Shepherd. In the pure air o' the kintra, beuks hae an immortal life. I hae nae great leebrary—feck o't consists o' twenty volumes o' my ain writing; but, oh! man, it is sweet to sit down, on a calm simmer evening, on a bit knowe, by the lochside, and let ane's mind gang daundering awa down the pages o' some volume o' genius, creating thochts alang with the author, till, at last, you dinna weel ken whilk o' you made the beuk. That's just the way I aften read your Magazine, till I could believe that I hae written every article-Noctes and a'. North. How did the Border games go off this Spring Meeting, Shepherd ? The Shepherd. The loupin' was gude, and the rinnin' was better, and the ba' was best. Oh, man! that ye had but been there! North. What were the prizes? The Shepherd. Bunnets. Blue bunnets-I hae ane o' them in my pouch, that wasna gien awa'. There-try it on. (The Shepherd puts the blue bonnet on Mr. North's head.) North. I have seen the day, James, when I could have leaped any man in Ettrick. |