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I freely will own I the muffins preferred To all the genteel conversation I heard. E’en though I’d the honour of sitting between My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen, Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine. Cries Peggy, ‘This place is enchantingly pretty; We never can see such a thing in the city. You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street, And never so civil a gentleman meet; | You may talk what you please; you may search London through; You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too; And I’ll give you my head if you find such a host, For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast: How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife, And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!” “These horns, cries my lady, “so tickle one's ear, | Lard! what would I give that Sir Simon was here! | To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go, | For I find here are folks one may venture to know: Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend, And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.” So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past, I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along; For his lordship was pleased that the company now To my Lady Bunbutter should curtsy and bow; And my lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly proud At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd. And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored This beautiful image set up by my lord, Some few insignificant folk went away, Just to follow the employments and calls of the day; But those who knew better their time how to spend, The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend. Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillon, Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion; All the while her mamma was expressing her joy, That her daughter the morning so well could employ. Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great? As homeward we came—'tis with sorrow you’ll hear What a dreadful disaster attended the peer; For whether some envious god had decreed That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed; Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old; In handing old Lady Comefidget and daughter, | This obsequious lord tumbled into the water; | But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat, | And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.
Mirts. Thirt ALE.
MRs THRALE (afterwards Mrs Piozzi), who lived for many years in terms of intimate friendship with | Dr Johnson, is authoress of an interesting little | moral poem, The Three Warnings, which is so superior to her other compositions, that it has been supposed to have been partly written, or at least corrected, by Johnson. This lady was a native of | Wales, being born at Bodville, in Caernarvonshire, in 1740. In 1764 she was married to Mr Henry | Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to appreciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, and whose hospitality and wealth afforded
the great moralist an asylum in his house. After
the death of this excellent man, his widow married
Signior Piozzi, an Italian music-master, a step
which Johnson never could forgive. The lively | lady proceeded with her husband on a continental tour, and they took up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. She afterwards published
|rence Miscellany, and afforded a subject for the
To 1780. a volume of miscellaneous pieces, entitled The Flo
satire of Gifford, whose “Baviad and Maeviad' was written to lash the Della Cruscan songsters with whom Mrs Piozzi was associated. The Anecdotes and Letters of Dr Johnson, by Mrs Piozzi, are the only valuable works which proceeded from her pen. She was a minute and clever observer of men and manners, but deficient in judgment, and not particular as to the accuracy of her relations. Mrs Piozzi died at Clifton in 1822.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
| And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Half-killed with anger and surprise,
“So soon returned '' old Dodson cries.
“So soon d'ye call it?' Death replies:
*Surely, my friend, you’re but in jest!
| Since I was here before
And you are now fourscore.”
“So much the worse,' the clown rejoined; “To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority—is’t regal | Else you are come on a fool's errand, | With but a secretary's warrant.” | Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, | Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages.”
“I know,” cries Death, “that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you’d still be able To stump about your farm and stable: | Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength !’ ‘Hold,” says the farmer, “not so fast ! I have been lame these four years past.” “And no great wonder,’ Death replies: ‘However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.’ “Perhaps,’ says Dodson, “so it might, But latterly I’ve lost my sight.” ‘This is a shocking tale, ’tis true; | But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.” “There's none,’ cries he; “and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.” “Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoined, These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, | You've had your Three sufficient Warnings; | So come along, no more we’ll part;’ He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now Old Dodson, turning pale, Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.
The REv. THoMAs Moss, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Hill, and of Trentham, in Staffordshire, published anonymously, in 1769, a collection of miscellaneous poems, forming a thin quarto, which he had printed at Wolverhampton. One piece was | copied by Dodsley into his “Annual Register,’ and from thence has been transferred (different persons being assigned as the author) into almost every periodical and collection of fugitive verses. This poem is entitled The Beggar (sometimes called The Beggar's Petition), and contains much pathetic and natural sentiment finely expressed.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, | Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
* An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
For plenty there a residence has found,
(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door, To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
Should I reveal the source of every grief,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
Heaven sends misfortunes—why should we repine !
And your condition may be soon like mine,
A little farm was my paternal lot,
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My daughter—once the comfort of my age 1 Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world’s wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife—sweet soother of my care!
Fell—lingering fell, a victim to despair,
Pig the sorrows of a poor old man
hose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Though most Scottish authors at this time—as Thomson, Mallet, Hamilton, and Beattie—composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue with considerable success. The popularity of Ramsay's ‘Tea-Table Miscellany’ led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song. In 1751 appeared “Yair's Charmer, and in 1769 David Herd published a more complete collection of ‘Scottish Songs and Ballads, which he reprinted, with additions, in 1776.
ALExANDER Ross, a schoolmaster in Lochlee, in Angus, when nearly seventy years of age, in 1768 published at Aberdeen, by the advice of Dr Beattie, a volume entitled Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess, a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect, to which are added a few Songs by the Author. Ross was a good descriptive poet, and some of his songs —as Woo'd, and Married, and a', The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow—are still popular in Scotland. Being chiefly written in the Kincardineshire dialect (which differs in many expressions, and in pronunciation, from the Lowland Scotch of Burns), Ross is less known out of his native district than he ought to be. Beattie took a warm interest in the “good
John Lowe (1750–1798), a student of divinity, son of the gardener at Kenmore in Galloway, was author of the fine pathetic lyric, Mary's Dream, which he wrote on the death of a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, who was attached to a Miss M'Ghie, Airds. The poet was tutor in the family of the lady's father, and was betrothed to her sister. He emigrated to America, however, where he married another female, became dissipated, and died in great misery near Fredericksburgh. Though Lowe wrote numerous other pieces, prompted by poetical feeling and the romantic scenery of his native glen, his ballad alone is worthy | of preservation.
The moon had climbed the highest hill
She from her pillow gently raised
Three stormy nights and stormy days
O maiden dear, thyself prepare;
LADY ANNE BARNARD.
LADY ANNE BARNARD was authoress of Auld Robin Gray, one of the most perfect, tender, and affecting, of all our ballads or tales of humble life.
Balcarres House, Fifeshire; where “Auld Robin Gray' was composed.
About the year 1771, Lady Anne composed the ballad to an ancient air. It instantly became po|pular, but the lady kept the secret of its authorship for the long period of fifty years, when, in 1823, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, accompanying the disclosure with a full account of the circumstances under which it was written. At the same time Lady Anne sent two | continuations to the ballad, which, like all other continuations (Don Quixote, perhaps, excepted), are greatly inferior to the original. Indeed, the tale of sorrow is so complete in all its parts, that no additions could be made without marring its simplicity or its pathos. Lady Anne was daughter of James | Lindsay, fifth Earl of Balcarres; she was born 8th December 1750, married in 1793 to Sir Andrew Barnard, librarian to George III., and died, without | issue, on the 8th of May 1825.
guage of the heart, ladies have often excelled the ‘lords of the creation,' and in music their triumphs are manifold. The first copy of verses, bewailing the losses sustained at Flodden, was written by Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, sister to Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto. The second song, which appears to be on the same subject, but was in reality occasioned by the bankruptcy of a number of gentlemen in Selkirkshire, is by Alicia Rutherford of Fernilie, who was afterwards married to Mr. Patrick Cockburn, advocate, and died in Edinburgh in 1794.
We agree with Mr Allan Cunningham in preferring Miss Elliot's song; but both are beautiful, and in singing, the second is the most effective.
John skinn E.R.
| Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tulloch
gorum, the composition of the Rev. John SKINNER
(1721–1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good will among men. Mr Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the Rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons! He died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised his wish of ‘seeing once more his children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.” Besides “Tullochgorum,’ and other songs, Skinner wrote an Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, and some theological treatises.
Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
0, Tullochgorum's my delight;
There need na be sae great a phrase
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend ;
And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him
May peace and plenty be his lot,
But for the discontented fool,
Robert CRAwford, author of The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of Tweedside, was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his ‘Tea-Table Miscellany,’ and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733. Crawford had genuine poetical fancy and expression. ‘The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, “seeks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people, and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'
The Bush aloon Traquair.
Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
That day she smiled and made me glad,
Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,