Quaint Gleanings From Ancient Poetry:
A COLLECTION OF CURIOUS POETICAL COMPOSITIONS OF THE XVIth, XVIIth, AND XVIIIth CENTURIES.
EDITED From MSS. and Rare Printed Originals BY EDMUND GOLDSMID, F.R.H.S.
The following curious collection I have gathered together during several years' reading in out-of-the-way corners. Manuscripts, in public and private libraries; old books picked up on dusty bookstalls, or carried away as prizes from the battlefield of the auction-room; even pencillings on the inside of tattered bindings,—all have been laid under contribution. I trust this medley, or pot-pourri, of snatches of song, grave and gay, will prove as interesting to my readers as they have been to myself. They claim attention on various grounds: some are the works of well-known men, such as Anthony Munday and Warren Hastings; some are bitter political squibs—such, for instance, as the "Satyre against the Scots," page 47; some, again, are exquisitely beautiful, as "The Dirge," page 53. A few have appeared in different collections: but none of my readers, I will undertake to say, have seen more than a half-dozen or so.
With these few words I beg to introduce Volume One of the "Collectanea Adamantaea."
Edinburgh, March 6th, 1884.
I. BEAUTIES FORT
II. MY BONNY LASS, THINE EYE
III. ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX
IV. CARE FOR THY SOUL
V. MEGLIORA SPERO
VI. A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING
VII. THE KING'S ANSWER
VIII. AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE
IX. THE ROBBER ROBB'D
X. AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE
XI. VERSES TO A FRIEND
XII. A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES
XIII. THE MIRACLE
XIV. THE PATRIOTS
XV. JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE
XVI. THE BRAWNY BISHOP'S LAMENT
XVII. THE POOR BLIND BOY
XVIII. THE INISKILLING REGIMENT
XIX. A BALLAD ON THE FLEET
XX. ON MR. FOX AND MR. HASTINGS
XXI. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BK. II, ODE 16
XXII. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON
XXIII. VERSES UPON THE ROAD
XXIV. SATYR ON THE SCOTS
XXV. THE MARSEILLAISE
XXVI. A DIRGE
FROM AN ANONYMOUS MS., LATELY IN POSSESSION OF J. P. COLLIER, ESQ., F.S.A.
When raging Love, with fierce assault, Strikes at fair Beauties gate, What army hath she to resist And keepe her court and state?
She calleth first on Chastitie To lende her help in time; And Prudence no lesse summons shee To meet her foe so trim.
And female Courage she alwaye Doth bring unto the walle, To blowe the trump in her dismaye, Fearing her fort may falle.
On force of wordes she much relies Her foe without to keepe, And parleyeth with her two bright eyes When they her dyke would leape.
Yet natheless the more she strives, The lesse she keepes him out, For she hath traitors in her camp That keepe her still in doubt.
The first and worst of these the Fleshe, Then womans Vanitie That still is caughte within the meshe Of guilefull Flatterie.
These traitors ope the gate at length; And in, with sword in hande, Came raging Love, and all her strength No longer can withstande.
Prudence and Chastitie both to Submit unto the foe; And female Courage nought can doe But down her walls must goe.
She needes must yield her castle strong, And Love triumphs once more; Its onely what the boy hath done A thousand times before.
None may resist his mightie power; And though a boy, and blinde, He knows to chase a happie hour When maidens must be kinde.
MY BONNY LASS! THINE EYE.
By THOMAS LODGE, M.D.
[Footnote: The original of this poem not being within my reach at present, I have inserted Professor Arber's modern version.]
My bonny lass! thine eye, So sly, Hath made me sorrow so. Thy crimson cheeks, my dear! So clear, Have so much wrought my woe.
Thy pleasing smiles and grace, Thy face, Have ravished so my sprites, That life is grown to nought Through thought Of love, which me affrights.
For fancy's flames of fire Aspire Unto such furious power, As but the tears I shed Make dead, The brands would me devour.
I should consume to nought Through thought Of thy fair shining eye, Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles, The wiles That forced my heart to die,
Thy grace, thy face, the part Where art Stands gazing still to see The wondrous gifts and power, Each hour, That hath bewitched me.
ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.
Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd, all trifling toys that doe no truth import, Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd, unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report, To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.
At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive; therefore I may sufficiently express What gallant joy his deedes did there revive in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness. And how the Pope did recompense his pains, and letters gave to move his greater gains.
But yet I know that many doe misdoubt that those his pains are fables, and untrue; Not only I in this will bear him out, but divers more that did his Patents view, And unto those so boldly I dare say that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.
Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall lately return'd into our native land; This witness can this matter perfect all: what needeth more? for witness he may stand. And thus I end, unfolding what I know; the other man more larger proof can show. "Honos alit Artes"
The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English Voyages," vol. ii. p. 136, ed. 1598-1600. John Fox, of Woodbridge, gunner of the Three Half Moons, was made prisoner by the Turks in 1563. Escaped with 266 other Christians in 1577.
CARE FOR THY SOULE.
Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce! Made to the ende to taste of power Divine, Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice, Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline; Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!
Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake, Not of excess; sustainyng food is best To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take. Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest; Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth, That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.
Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right; Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes; Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might; To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes; Care to dispend accordyng to thy store, And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.
Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye, Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail; Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye, Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail; Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this, Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.
By Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford.
Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels, Hath sett defiance; Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne Of one alliance.
Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire, Swears he "gives lawes; That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it: Fortune no cause."
Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes. "Turn'd with her wheel, Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love. Aske them that feel!"
This discord it begot atheists, that honour not. Nature thought good Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel; Love keepe the wood.
Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye; Fortunes forlorne. Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth In deserts borne.
My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free, Joan fair and true! Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love. Fortune! adieu!
A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING.
Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport, Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court; Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors, And made the meanest of your Sons of Whores; The scene of Laughter, and the common chats Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats; Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink, On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think: Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab, Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab, Rather than be the Issue of a King, And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing. How little cause has mankind to be proud Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd! Have I abroad in Battels Honour won To be at home dishonourably undone? Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine, Your Hobby-Horses  and your Joys of State, And now become the Object of your Hate; But, d———'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate. I was your Darling, but against your Will, And know that I will be the Peoples still; And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout, Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout, And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring, Next after you, by ———, I will be King.
[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the Horse.]
THE KING'S ANSWER.
Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son, Thou hast thyself unhappily undone; And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more, How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore. Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head, And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led. Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys, The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys? Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France, To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance? Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star, And sent thee like a Meteor to the War? Have I done all that Royal Dad could do, And do you threaten now to be untrue? But say I did with thy fond Mother sport, To the same kindness others had resort; 'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame, To shelter thee under my Royal Name. Alas! I never got one Brat alone, My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known, And I still willing all their Brats to own. I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace, And stuck upon thee every mighty Place, Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low. I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes By secret Envy at thy growing State: I lost my safety when I made thee Great. There's not the least Injustice to you shewn; You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne. Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage; And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves. Thou art a Creature of my own Creation; Then swallow this without Capitulation. If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter, And make the People for your Sake to mutter, For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know, G———fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.
AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE.
ENGLISH'D BY MR. DRYDEN.
O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign, New People fill the Land now thou art gone, New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne. Scotland and thou did each in other live, Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive. Farewell! who living didst support the State, And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.
THE ROBBER ROBB'D.
A certain Priest had hoarded up A mass of secret Gold. And where he might bestow it safe He knew not to be bold.
At last it came into his Thought To lock it in a Chest Within the Chancel; and he wrote Thereon, "Hic Deus est."
A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind Did long for such a Prey, Respecting not the Sacred Words That on the Casket lay,
Took out the Gold, and blotting out The Priest's Inscript thereon, Wrote, "Resurrexit, non est hic": "Your God is rose and gone."
AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!
Ah! the shepherd's mournful fate! When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate, Nor dare disclose his anguish. Yet eager looks, and dying sighs, My secret soul discover, While rapture trembling thro' my eyes Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance; the redd'ning cheek, O'erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air, So artfully beguiling!  Thy every look and every grace So charms whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase Still will my hopes pursue thee; Then when my tedious hours are past Be this last blessing given, Low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of heaven.
[Footnote 2: "Ars celare artem."]
SOME VERSES TO A FRIEND WHO TWICE VENTURED ON MARRIAGE.
BY THOMAS BROWN.
The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean, He always in danger, she always in motion; And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase Twice ventures the Drowning, and, Faith, that's a hard case. Even at our Weapons the Females defeat us, And Death, only Death, can sign our Quietus. Not to tell you sad stories of Liberty lost, Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost; That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station, Sutes no other States or Degrees in the Nation. The Levite it keeps from Parochial Duty, For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty? The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble, And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double. 'Twas invented, they tell you, to keep us from falling; Oh the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwauling! How it palls in your Gain; but, pray, how do you know, Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks in your Enclosure? For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage, You must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg. If at night you're inactive, or fail in performing, Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed, next Morning; Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner: This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner. Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally, And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily; And still you must charge—O blessed Condition!— Tho' you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition: Till at last the poor fool of a mortified man Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan. Fire, Flood, and Female, begin with a letter, But for all the World's not a Farthing the better. Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble, If into Flames store of Water you tumble; But to cure the damn'd Lust of your Wife's Titilation, You may use all the Engines and Pumps in the Nation, As well you may p—— out the last Conflagration. And thus I have sent you my Thoughts of the matter; You may judge as you please; I scorn for to flatter: I could say much more, but here ends the Chapter.
A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES.
Of all the Grain our Nation yields In Orchard, Gardens, or in Fields, There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common, Its Worth till now was known to no Man. Not Ceres Sickle e're did crop A Grain with Ears of greater hope: And yet this Grain (as all must own) To Grooms and Hostlers well is known, And often has without disdain In musty Barn and Manger lain, As if it had been only good To be for Birds and Beasts the Food. But now by new-inspired Force, It keeps alive both Man and Horse. Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess E'en what it is thou wouldst express: It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat, That can pretend to do the Feat: 'Tis Oates, bare Oates, that is become The Health of England, Bane of Rome, And Wonder of all Christendom. And therefore Oates has well deserv'd To be from musty Barn prefer'd, And now in Royal Court preserv'd, That like Hesperian Fruit, Oates may Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day, Which is but just retaliation For having guarded a whole Nation. Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands 'Twixt Berwick Walls and Dover Sands, The Oak itself (which well we stile The Pride and Glory of our Isle), Must strike and wave its lofty Head. And now salute an Oaten Reed, For surely Oates deserves to be Exalted far 'bove any Tree. The Agyptians once (tho' it seems odd) Did worship Onions for their God, And poor Peelgarlick was with them Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem. What would they then have done, think ye, Had they but had such Oates as we, Oates of such known Divinity? Since then such good by Oates we find, Let Oates at least be now enshrin'd; Or in some sacred Press enclos'd, Be only kept to be expos'd; And all fond Relicks else shall be Deem'd Objects of Idolatry. Popelings may tell us how they saw Their Garnet pictur'd on a Straw. 'Twas a great Miracle, we know, To see him drawn in little so: But on an Oaten stalk there is A greater Miracle than this; A Visage which, with comly Grace, Did twenty Garnets now outface: Nay, to the Wonder to add more, Declare unheard-of things before; And thousand Myst'ries does unfold, As plain as Oracles of old, By which we steer Affairs of State, And stave off Britain's sullen Fate. Let's then, in Honour of the Name Of OATES, enact some Solemn Game, Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire Beyond the charms of Orpheus Lyre; Stone, Stocks, and e'ery sensless thing To Oates shall dance, to Oates shall sing, Whilst Woods amaz'd to t'Ecchoes ring. And that this Hero's Name may not, When they are rotten, be forgot, We'll hang Atchievments o'er their Dust, A Debt we owe to Merits just So if Deserts of Oates we prize, Let Oates still hang before our Eyes, Thereby to raise our contemplation, Oates being to this happy Nation A Mystick Emblem of Salvation.
TO THE TUNE OF "O YOUTH, THOU HADST BETTER BEEN STARVED AT NURSE."
You Catholick States-men and Church-men, rejoyce, And praise Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice; None greater on Earth or in Heaven than She, Some say she's as good as the best of the Three. Her miracles bold Were famous of old, But a Braver than this was never yet told; 'Tis pity that every good Catholick living Had not heard on't before the last Day of Thanksgiving.
In Lombardy-Land great Modena's Duchess  Was snatched from her Empire by Death's cruel clutches; When to Heaven she came (for thither she went) Each Angel received her with Joy and Content. On her knees she fell down, Before the bright Throne, And begged that God's Mother would grant her one Boon: Give England a Son (at this Critical Point) To put little Orange's Nose out of Joynt.
As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition, To Gabriel, the Angel, she strait gave Commission; She pluck'd off her Smock from her Shoulders Divine, And charg'd him to hasten to England's fair Queen. "Go to the Royal Dame, To give her the same, And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name, For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder, Shall keep the most Insolent Hereticks under.
"Tell James (my best son) his part of the matter Must be with this only to cover my daughter; Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand, Then let him go travel to visit the Land; And the Spirit of Love Shall come from above, Though not as before, in form of a Dove; Yet down He shall come in some likeness or other (Perhaps like Count Dada), and make her a Mother."
The Message with Hearts full of Faith was receiv'd, And the next news we heard was Q. M. conceiv'd; You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters, Grave Judges, Lords, Bishops, and Commons Consenters, You Commissioners all Ecclesiastical, From M... the Dutiful to C... the Tall, Pray Heav'n to strengthen Her Majesties Placket, For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket.
[Footnote 3: Maria Laura d'Este.]
[Footnote 4: John, Earl of Mulgrave, Lord Chamberlain of the Household.]
[Footnote 5: William, Earl of Craven.]
WRIT ABOUT THE YEAR 1700.
Ye worthy Patriots, go on To heal the Nation's Sores, Find all Men's Faults out but your own, Begin good Laws, but finish none, And then shut up your Doors.
Fail not our Freedom to secure, And all our Friends disband, And send those Men to t'other Shore Who were such Fools as to come o'er To help this grateful Land.
And may the next that hears us pray, And in Distress relieve us, Go home like those without their Pay, And with Contempt be sent away For having once believ'd us.
And if the French should e'er attempt This Nation to invade, May they be damn'd that list again, But lead the fam'd Militia on, To be like us betray'd.
As for the Crown you have bestow'd, With all its Limitations, The meanest Prince in Christendom Would never stir a Mile from home To govern three such Nations.
The King himself, whom once you call'd Your Saviour in Distress, You in his first Request deny'd, And then his Royal Patience try'd With a canting sham Address.
Ye are the Men that to be chose Wou'd be at no Expences, Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes, Have ways and means that no Man knows To mortify your Senses.
Ye are the Men that can condemn By Laws made ex post facto, Who can make Knaves of honest Men, And married Women turn again To be Virgo and Intacta.
Go on to purify the Court, And damn the Men of Places Till decently you send them home, And get your selves put in their room, And then you'll change your Faces.
Go on for to establish Trade, And mend our Navigation, Let India invade, And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid, And Bankrupt all the Nation.
'Tis you that calculate our Gold, And with a senseless Tone, Vote that you never understood, That we might take them if we wou'd Or let them all alone.
Your Missives you send round about With Mr. Speaker's Letter, To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out, Which Fools believe without dispute, Because they know no better.
With borrow'd Ships, and hir'd Men, The Irish to reduce, Who will be paid the Lord knows when; 'Tis hop'd whene'er you want again, You'll think of that Abuse.
Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt, On Salt, on Glass, on Leather, To wheedle Coxcombs in to lend; And like true Cheats, you dropt that Fund, And sunk them all altogether.
And now y'are piously enclin'd The Needy to employ; You'd better much your time bestow To pay neglected Debts you owe, Which makes them multiply.
Against Prophaneness you declar'd, And then the Bill rejected; And when the Arguments appear'd, They were the worst that e'er were heard, And best that we expected.
'Twas voted once that for the Sin Of Whoring Men should die all; But then it was wisely thought again. The House would quickly grow so thin, They durst not stand the Tryal.
King Charles the Second knew your aim, And Places gave, and Pensions; And had King William's Mony flown, His Majesty would soon have known Your Consciences Dimensions.
But he has wisely given you up To work your own desires, And laying Arguments aside, As things that have in vain been try'd, To Fasting calls, and Prayers.
CHORUS— Your Hours are choicely employ'd, Your Petitions lie all on the Table, With Funds Insufficient, And Taxes Deficient, And Deponents innumerable. For shame leave this wicked Employment, Reform both your Manners and Lives; You were never sent out To make such a Rout, Go home, and look after your W——s.
JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE; OR, SCROGGS UPON SCROGGS.
A Butcher's Son's Judge Capital Poor Protestants for to enthral, And England to enslave, Sirs; Lose both our Laws and Lives we must When to do Justice we entrust So known an arrant Knave, Sirs.
Some hungry Priests he did once fell, With mighty Strokes sent them to Hell, Sent presently away, Sirs; Would you know why? The Reason's plain They had no English nor French coin To make a longer stay, Sirs.
The Pope to Purgatory sends Who neither Money have nor Friends, In this he's not alone, Sirs; For our Judge to Mercy's no inclin'd, 'Less Gold change Conscience and his Mind, You are infallibly gone, Sirs.
His Father once exempted was Out of all Juries ; why? because He was a Man of Blood, Sirs; And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth) Shou'd now be Jury and Judge both Cannot be understood, Sirs.
The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox Stoop to him in his Fury; But the brib'd Son, like greasie Oaph, Kneels down and worships Golden Calf, And so do's all the Jury.
Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade, An honest Livelihood to have made, In lamp'ring Bulls with Collars, Than to thy Country prove unjust, First sell, and then betray, thy Trust, For so many hard Rix-Dollars.
Priest and Physician thou didst save From Gallows, Fire, and from the Grave, For which we can't endure thee; The one can ne'er absolve thy Sins, And th'other (tho' he now begins) Of Knav'ry ne'er can cure thee.
But lest we all shou'd end his Life, And with a keen-whet Chopping-Knife In a Thousand pieces cleave him, Let the Parliament first him undertake, They'll make the Rascal stink at stake, And so, like a Knave, let's leave him.
[Footnote 6: By an old law, butchers and surgeons were unable to serve on juries.]
THE BRAWNY BISHOP'S COMPLAINT.
TO THE TUNE OF "PACKINGTON'S POUND."
When B——t  perceiv'd the beautiful Dames, Who flock'd to the Chapel of Holy St. James, On their Lovers the kindest Looks did bestow, And smil'd not on him while he bellow'd below, To the Princess he went With Pious intent This dangerous Ill in the Church to prevent: "O Madam!" quoth he, "our Religion is lost If the Ladies thus ogle the Knights of the Toast.
"Your Highness observes how I labour and sweat Their Affections to raise, and new Flames to beget; And sure when I preach all the World, will agree That their Ears and their Eyes should be pointed on me: But now I can't find One Beauty so kind As my Parts to regard, or my Presence to mind; Nay, I scarce have a sight of any one Face But those of old Oxford and ugly Arglas.
"These sorrowful Matrons, with Hearts full of Truth, Repent for the manifold Sins of their Youth: The rest with their Tattle my Harmony spoil; And Bur—ton, An—sey, K—gston, and B—le  Their Minds entertain With thoughts so profane 'Tis a mercy to find that at Church they contain; Ev'n Hen—ham's  Shapes their weak Fancies intice, And rather than me they will ogle the Vice. 
"These Practices, Madam, my Preaching disgrace; Shall Laymen enjoy the just Rights of my Place? Then all may lament my Condition for hard, To thresh in the Pulpit without a Reward. Then pray condescend Such Disorders to end, And from their ripe Vineyards such Labourers send; Or build up the Seats, that the Beauties may see The Face of no brawny Pretender but me."
The Princess, by rude Importunities press'd, Tho' she laugh'd at his Reasons, allow'd his request; And now Britain's Nymphs in a Protestant Reign Are locked up at Pray'rs like the Virgins in Spain, And all are undone As sure as a Gun: Whenever a Woman is kept like a Nun; If any kind Man from Bondage will save her, The Lass in Gratitude grants him the Favour.
[Footnote 7: Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, who in 1674 was preacher at the Rolls Chapel.]
[Footnote 8: Burlington, Anglesey, Kingston, and Boyle.]
[Footnote 9: Heningham.]
[Footnote 10: The Vice-Chamberlain.]
THE POOR BLIND BOY.
BY COLLY GIBBER, 1749.
Oh, say! what is that thing call'd light, Which I can ne'er enjoy? What is the blessing of the sight? Oh, tell your poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you see; You say the sun shines bright; I feel his warmth, but how can he E'er make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make, Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I always keep awake, It would be always day.
With heavy sighs, I often hear You mourn my hopeless woe; But sure with patience I may bear A loss I do not know.
Then let not what I cannot have My peace of mind destroy; While thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.
THE INISKILLING REGIMENT.
I will sing in the Praise, if you'll lend but an Ear, Of the first Royal Regiment, but don't think I jeer If I vow and protest they are as brave Men and Willing, As ever old Rome bred, or new Iniskilling.
Oh, had you but seen them March with that Decorum That no Roman Triumph could e're go before 'em, Some smoking, some whistling, all meaning no harm, Like Yorkshire Attornies coming up to a Term,
On Bobtails, on Longtails, on Trotters, on Pacers, On Pads, Hawkers, Hunters, on Higlers, on Racers, You'd ha' swore Knight and Squires, Prigs, Cuckolds, and Pandors. Appear'd all like so many great Alexanders,
Whose Warriers who thorow all Dangers durst go. Most bravely despising Blood, Battle, and Foe, Were mounted on Steeds the last Lord Mayor's Day, From Turky, Spain, Barbary, Coach, Cart, and Dray.
'Twas that very day their high Prowess was shown, In guarding the King thro' the Fire-works o' th' Town; Tho' Sparks were unhors'd and their lac'd Coats were spoil'd, They dreaded no Squibs of Men, Women, or Child.
The Cornet whose nose, though it spoke him no Roman, Was mounted that day on a Horse that feared no man, No Wounds, for all o're his Trappings so sumptuous He had ty'd Squibs and Crackers; 'twas mighty presumptuous.
For note his Design; faith, 'tis worth your admiring: 'Twas to let the Queen se how his Horse could stand firing, Not wisely consid'ring her Majesty's marry'd, And he had been hang'd if the Queen had miscarry'd.
All Hearts true as Steel, but of all brave Fellows Th'Attorney for my money who was so zealous, He went for the Lease of his own House from Home, To make a new covering for the Troop's Kettle drum.
The Lieutenant being thrown by his Jennet, His Son in Law fancying some Treachery in it, Gave the Oaths to the Horse, which the Beast took, they say, But swore by the Lord they went down like chopt hay.
He the Nag of an Irish Papist did buy, So doubting his Courage and his Loyalty, He taught him to eat with his Oats Gunpowdero, And prance to the Tune of Lilly-bolero. 
XI. The Tub-preaching Saint was so furious a Blade, In Jack-boots both Day and Night preacht, slept, and pray'd; To call them to prayers he need no Saint's Bell, For gingling his Spurs chim'd them all in as well.
A noble stout Scrivener that now shall be nameless, That in Day of Battle he might be found blameless, A War-horse of Wood from Duck Carver buys, To learn with more safety the Horse Exercise.
With one eye on's Honour, the other on's Gain, He fixes a Desk on Bucephalus Main, That so by that means he his Prancer bestriding, Might practise at once both his Writing and Riding.
But, oh, the sad news which their Joy now confounds, To Ireland, their own, like the last Trumpet sounds; Lord! Lord! how this sets them a Waiting Petitions, And thinking of nothing but Terms and Conditions.
Oh, who will March for me? speak any that dare, A Horse and an Hundred Pounds for him, that's fair; Dear Courtiers, excuse me from Teagland and Slaughter, And take which you please, Sir, my Wife or my Daughter."
XVI. Some feign'd themselves lame, some feign'd themselves clapt, At last finding all themselves by themselves trapt, The King most unanimously they addrest, And told him the Truth, 'twas all but a Jest.
XVII. "A Jest," quoth the King, and with that the King smil'd, "Come, it ne're shall be said such a Jest shall be spoil'd; Therefore I dismiss you. in Peace all depart, For it was more your Goodness than my Desert."
Thus happily freed from the dreadful Vexation Of being Defenders of this, or that Nation, They kist Royal Fist, and were drunk all for Joy, And broke all their swords, and cry'd Vive le Roy.
[Footnote 11: The refrain of a celebrated political song.]
A BALLAD ON THE FLEET.
A mighty great Fleet—the like was ne'er seen Since the Reign of K. William and Mary the Q.— Design'd the Destruction of France, to have been, Which nobody can deny, etc.
The Fleet was composed of English and Dutch; For Men and for Guns there was never seen such, Nor so little done when expected so much, Which, etc.
One hundred Ships which we Capital call, With Frigots and Tenders, and Yatchts that were small, Went out, and did little or nothing at all, Which, etc.
260,500 and six Lusty Men, Had they chanc'd to have met with the French Fleet, oh, then, As they beat 'em last year, so they'd beat 'em again, Which, etc.
Six thousand great Guns and seventy-eight more, As good and as great as ever did roar; It had been the same thing had they all been ashore, Which, etc.
But T——  now must command them no more; We try'd of what Mettle he was made of before; It's safer for him on the Land for to whore, Which, etc.
For a Bullet perhaps from the loud Cannons Breech, Which makes no distinction betwixt poor and rich, Instead of his Dog might have taken his Bitch, Which, etc.
But R—— the C—— C—— R—— is chose His fine self and his Fleet to the Sea to expose, But he'll have a care how he meets with his Foes, Which, etc.
He had Sea-Colonels of the Nature of Otter, Which either might serve by Land or by Water, But of what they have done we have heard no great matter, Which, etc.
In the month of May last they sail'd on the Main, And now in September they come back again With the loss of some ships, but in Battle none slain, Which, etc.
[Footnote 12: Probably George, Viscount Torrington, First Lord of the Admiralty in 1727.]
ON SEEING MR. FOX AND MR. HASTINGS AT CHELTENHAM.
"En redit Hastingus, pocatis regibus Indi, Anglorum et posito nomine, et imperio, Ecce silet vulpes, annosaque fabula Burki, Faucibus haret, eheu, Dic, age, dic Sheridan."
From Eastern climes, lo, Hastings! late return'd, His struggles ended, and his fame well earn'd, Illustrious Stateman!  to a distant age Thy name shall live and grace th'historic page; There licens'd falsehoods  shall no more prevail, Nor Dodsley publish  Edmund's annual tale. When France, exulting, deem'd our ruin near, And Hyder's progress struck each Chief with fear; When hostile nations press'd in league combin'd, Collected, firm, and dauntless was thy mind; Inspir'd by Hastings, Coote : the seasons brav'd, Embark'd his succours, and a kingdom sav'd. Goddard  at his command our standard bore Through lands to England's sons unknown before; While Popham's victories rais'd our country's fame And fix'd in realms remote the British name. The sued-for peace  to Gualior's fall is due. And Gualior's capture long was Hastings' view. History shall tell how clos'd the scene of blood, When to a world oppos'd Britannia stood; No conquest Gallia claims on India's coast, No splendid triumphs can the Belgian boast, For millions wasted,  and a navy lost. The keen Maratta and the fierce Mysore Their league dissolve, and give the contest o'er; And peace restor'd, e'en party owns, tho' late,  That Hastings' firmness has preserv'd the State. Succeeding ages this great truth shall know, A truth recorded by a generous foe,  That England's genius, in a luckless hour For Gallic schemes, gave Hastings Sov'reign pow'r.
[Footnote 13: Pitt, who moved the address upon the peace in Lord Shelburne's administration, declared, in the course of his speech, that he had no fears for India while so illustrious a stateman as Mr. Hastings directed our councils, and so great a general as Sir Eyre Coote commanded our armies. This declaration was the more honourable for Mr. Hastings because at that time the absurd prejudices of the Rockingham party had misled half the Nation.]
[Footnote 14: It can be remembered with what diligence copies of the reports of the Select Committee were circulated under the sanction of the Ministry, and how many false and abusive libels were given away through the kingdom, tending to depreciate the character of Mr. Hastings, previous to Mr. Fox's bringing in his India Bill.]
[Footnote 15: Mr. Burke published a speech almost every year after he came into notice.]
[Footnote 16: The preservation of the British empire in India depended upon Sir Eyre Coote's safe arrival at Madras with money and troops at the most dangerous season of the year, when merchant ships seldom venture upon the coast.]
[Footnote 17: General Goddard marched from Corah to Surat, across the continent of Indostan, and after the conclusion of the peace the same army returned to Bengal under the command of Colonel Charles Morgan, through countries which we had formerly little knowledge of. Colonel Pearce marched at the head of five regiments of Bengal Sepoys from Calcutta to reinforce Sir Eyre Coote's army at Madras. This brave detachment was distinguished in every action; on the attack of the French lines at Cuddalore, one of the regiments was opposed to a French European regiment, and much of the success of that day is attributed to the spirited exertions of the Bengal detachment. Colonel Pearce, on the conclusion of the peace with Tippoo, marched this detachment back to Calcutta, where it was disbanded in the month of January.]
[Footnote 18: The separate peace with Madagee Scindia was entirely owing to the capture of Gwalior and to the subsequent operations of a detachment formed by Hastings for the express purpose of drawing Scindia from Guzzerat to the defence of his own dominions, and as a certain means of effecting a general peace.]
[Footnote 19: The war in India cost France at least seven millions sterling, and at the close of it we were in possession of all the French and Dutch settlements on the continent of India, and were besieging their forces in Cuddalore when intelligence of the peace in Europe was received at Madras.]
[Footnote 20: The Directors were divided at one period in their opinion of Hastings; and Fox and Burke invariably laid great stress upon the circumstance that thirteen directors were of opinion he ought to be recalled in 1783, though ten of the same body, and 428 proprietors, most strenuously supported him. Many of the thirteen who voted his recall in 1783 were in the Direction when he received a unanimous vote of thanks for his long, faithful, and important services.]
[Footnote 21: Monsieur Law, governor of Pondicherry, in a memoir addressed to the French Minister, says, "In an evil hour for France the English East India Company appointed Mr. Hastings governor of Bengal." And Monsieur Suffrien, in a letter to Hastings, relative to his treatment of English prisoners, says that he wishes to explain the motives of his conduct to one "of whom all the world speaks well,"-and surely a compliment of this kind was never paid with more justice to any individual than to Warren Hastings. Throughout India and Europe, the character of no man was more generally known or more universally respected.]
AN IMITATION OF HORACE
BOOK II., ODE 16.
WRITTEN BY WARREN HASTINGS ON HIS PASSAGE FROM BENGAL TO ENGLAND IN 1785. ADDRESSED TO JOHN SHORE, ESQ.
For ease the harass'd seaman prays, When Equinoctial tempests raise The Cape's surrounding wave; When hanging o'er the reef, he hears The cracking mast, and sees or fears, Beneath, his wat'ry grave.
For ease the slow Maratta spoils, And hardier Sic erratic toils, While both their ease forego; For ease, which neither gold can buy, Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie, The cover'd heart bestow;
For neither gold nor gems combin'd Can heal the soul, or suffering mind; Lo! where their owner lies, Perch'd on his couch Distemper breathes, And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes, Round the gay cieling flies.
He who enjoys, nor covets more, The lands his father held before, Is of true bliss possess'd: Let but his mind unfetter'd tread Far as the paths of knowledge lead, And wise as well as blest.
No fears his peace of mind annoy Lest printed lies his fame destroy, Which labour'd years have won, Nor pack'd committees break his rest, Nor avarice sends him forth in quest Of climes beneath the sun.
Short is our span; then why engage In schemes, for which man's transient age Was ne'er by Fate designed? Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand? What wanderer from his native land E'er left himself behind?
The restless thought, and wayward will, And discontent attend him still, Nor quit him while he lives; At sea care follows in the wind, At land it mounts the pad behind, Or with the postboy drives.
He would happy live to-day Must laugh the present ills away, Nor think of woes to come, For come they will or soon or late, Since mix'd at best is man's estate, By Heaven's eternal doom.
To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd, With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd, His valour's well-earn'd meed; Too long, alas! he lived to hate His envied lot, and died  too late, From life's oppression freed.
An early death was Elliott's  doom; I saw his opening virtues bloom, And manly sense unfold, Too soon to fade! I bade the stone Record his name 'midst Hordes unknown, Unknowing what it told.
To thee, perhaps, the fates may give— I wish they may—in health to live, Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields, Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine; With these, the muse already thine Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore! I only claim To merit, not to seek for fame, The good and just to please, A state above the fear of want, Domestic love, Heaven's choicest grant, Health, leisure, peace, and ease.
[Footnote 22: Lord Clive committed suicide 1774.]
[Footnote 23: Mr. Elliott died in October, 1778, on his way to Nangpore, the capital of Moodagees Boofla's dominions, being deputed on an embassy to that prince by the Governor-General and Council; a monument was erected to his memory on the spot where he was buried, and the Marattas have since built a town there, called Elliott Gunge, or Elliott's Town.]
EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.
Here lies poor Johnson. Reader, have a care, Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear: Religious, moral, generous, and humane He was, but self-sufficient, rude, and vain; Ill-bred and overbearing in dispute, A scholar and a Christian—yet a brute. Would you know all his wisdom and his folly, His actions, sayings, mirth, and melancholy? Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit, Will tell you how he wrote, and talked, and cough'd, and spit.
VERSES UPON THE ROAD. FACIT INDIGNATIO.
AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY DAVID GARRICK, TO LORD JOHN CAVENDISH.
Whilst all with sighs their way pursue From Chatsworth's blest abode, My mind still fires, my Lord, at you, And thus bursts out in ode.
Forgive my phrenzy, good Lord John, For passion's my Apollo: Sweet Hebe says, when sense is gone, That nonsense needs must follow.
Like Indian knife, or Highland sword, Your words have hewn and hack'd me; Whilst Quin, a rebel to his lord, Like his own Falstaff back'd me.
In vain I bounce, and fume, and fret, Swear Shakespeare is divine; Fitzherbert  can a while forget His pains to laugh at mine.
Lord Frederick, George, and eke his Grace, My honest zeal deride; Nay, Hubert's melancholy face Smirks on your Lordship's side.
With passion, zeal, and punch misled, Why goad me on to strife? Why send me to a restless bed And disappointed wife?
This my reward! and this from you! Is't thus you Bowman  treat, Who eats more toads than you know who Each night did strawberries eat?
Did I not mount the dun-drawn chaise, And sweat for many a mile? And gave his Grace's skill much praise, Grinning a ghastly smile!
Did I not elsewhere risk my bones, My Lord-Duke's freaks took pride in? Did I not trot down hills of Stones, And call it pleasant riding?
Did I not all your feats proclaim, Nor once from duty shrink? In flattery I sunk my fame, A Bowman e'en in drink.
Did I not oft my conscience force, Against its dictates swear? Have I not prais'd Lord Georg's horse? Nay, e'en your Lordship's mare?
Did I not oft, in rain and wind, O'er hills, thro' vallies roam, When wiser folk would lag behind, And Spaniels staid at home?
Have I not with your natives fed, The worst of all my labours; And ventur'd both my ears and head Amongst your scalping neighbours?
Not Quin's more blest with Calipee, Fitzherbert in his puns, Lord John in contradicting me, Lord Frederick with his nuns,
Than I am blest in Shakespear's muse! Each drop within my standish, Each drop of blood for him I'll lose, As firm as any Ca'ndish.
As Whig you gain the world's applause, For once a Tory shine, A Tory once in Shakespeare's cause, And feel his right divine!
Attack my wife, my patent tear, Do deeds without a name! Burn, kill, or ravish, Lord! but spare, Oh, spare my Shakespeare's fame!
Did not Dean Barker  wisely preach, Opinion may be sin? Did not his sermon wisely teach To cleanse ourselves within?
From infidelity awake! Oh, melt your heart of stone; Conceal your errors for my sake, Or mend them for your own.
[Footnote 24: William Fitzherbert, Esq., of Tissington, M.P. for Derby.]
[Footnote 25: The name of a character in "Lethe."]
[Footnote 26: The Rev. William Barker, M.A., Dean of Raphoi He died about 1777.]
SATYR ON THE SCOTS.
BY MR. CLEVELAND.
Come, keen Iambicks, 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 quote The Name of Scot without an Antidote, Unless my Head were red, that I might brew Invention there that might be Poison too. Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal Note Disgorges Halters, as a Juggler's Throat Does Ribbons; could I in Sir Empyrick's Tone Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction; Or roar like Marshal, that Geneva Bull, Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full: Yet to express a Scot, to play that Prize, Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice. Before a Scot can properly be curst, I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first. Scots are 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 take The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake, I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your Eyes; A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise. No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation Fosters no Venom since that Scots' Plantation; Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain, Since they came in England has Wolves again. Nature her self does Scotch-men Beasts confess, Making their Country such a Wilderness; A Land that brings in Question and Suspence God's Omnipresence but that Charles came thence, But that Montrose and Crawford's Royal Band Aton'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 Paint Shews 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! Had Cain been Scot, God would have chant'd his Doom, Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home. Like Jews they spread, and as Infection fly, As if the Devil had Ubiquity. Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defie This or that Place, Rags of Geography. They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all; Scotland's a 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 the Dutch States a double Jug Resembles 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 with Scots as Tooth-drawers has dealt, Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt. Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame The Stubborn Scot: A Prince that would reclaim Rebels 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 lard Israel with Egypt's Spoil? Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts! How a Scotch Stomach and no Meat converts! They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took Religion 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, 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, You Picts in Gentry and Devotion, You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a Race Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace. Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use. The Indian that Heaven did forswear Because he heard some Spaniards were there. Had he but known what Scots in 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 the Scots decease, Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles. A Scot, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose, Drops into Stix, and turns a Soland Goose. 
[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'd On victory or death.
Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling Which 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, bewailing That 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 knot That did in willing durance bind My happy soul to hers for life By 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 cheeks That wont with cheerful red to glow.
Mute, mute, is that harmonious voice That wont to breathe the sounds of love, And lifeless are those beauteous limbs That 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.