The Map and the Clock
Page 15
Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa’;
Then come and gies the tither blaw
Of reaming ale,
Mair precious than the well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.
Then, tho’ at odds wi’ a’ the warl’,
Amang oursells we’ll never quarrel;
Tho’ Discord gie a canker’d snarl
To spoil our glee,
As lang’s there’s pith into the barrel
We’ll drink and ‘gree.
Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddle-sticks,
But banish vile Italian tricks
From out your quorum:
Nor fortes wi’ pianos mix,
Gie’s Tulloch Gorum.
For nought can cheer the heart sae weil
As can a canty Highland reel,
It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel
Its influence.
Let mirth abound, let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy,
Nor envy wi’ sarcastic sneer
Our bliss destroy.
And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!
Wha sways the empire of this city,
When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,
Be thou prepar’d
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City-Guard.
ROBERT FERGUSSON
The Litany for Doneraile
Alas! how dismal is my Tale,
I lost my Watch in Doneraile.
My Dublin Watch, my Chain and Seal,
Pilfered at once in Doneraile.
May Fire and Brimstone never fail
To fall in Showers on Doneraile.
May all the leading Fiends assail
The thieving Town of Doneraile.
As Light’ning’s Flash across the vale,
So down to Hell with Doneraile.
The fate of Pompey at Pharsale,
Be that the Curse for Doneraile.
May Beef or Mutton, Lamb or Veal,
Be never found in Doneraile,
But Garlic Soup and scurvy Cale
Be still the food for Doneraile,
And forward as the creeping Snail
Th’Industry be of Doneraile.
May Heav’n a chosen Curse entail
On rigid, rotten Doneraile.
May Sun and Moon for ever fail
To beam their lights on Doneraile.
May every pestilential Gale
Blast that cursed spot called Doneraile.
May no Cuckoo, Thrush or Quail,
Be ever heard in Doneraile.
May Patriots, Kings, and Commonweal
Despise and harass Doneraile.
May every Post, Gazette and Mail,
Sad Tidings bring of Doneraile.
May loudest Thunders ring a Peal
To blind and deafen Doneraile.
May vengeance fall at head and tail
From North to South at Doneraile.
May Profit light and tardy Sale
Still damp the Trade of Doneraile.
May Egypt’s plagues at once prevail
To thin the Knaves at Doneraile.
May Frost and Snow, and Sleet and Hail
Benumb each joint in Doneraile.
May Wolves and Bloodhounds trace and trail
The cursed Crew of Doneraile.
May Oscar with his fiery Flail
To Atoms thresh all Doneraile.
May every Mischief fresh and stale
Abide henceforth in Doneraile.
May all from Belfast to Kinsale
Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile.
May neither Flour nor Oatmeal
Be found or known in Doneraile.
May Want and Woe each Joy curtail
That e’er was known in Doneraile.
May not one Coffin want a Nail
That wraps a Rogue in Doneraile.
May all the Sons of Granuwale
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile.
May Mischief big as Norway Whale
O’erwhelm the Knaves of Doneraile.
May Curses wholesale and retail
Pour with full force on Doneraile.
May every Transport wont to Sail
A Convict bring from Doneraile.
May every Churn and milking Pail
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile.
May Cold and Hunger still congeal
The stagnant Blood of Doneraile.
May every Hour new Woes reveal
That Hell reserves for Doneraile.
May every chosen Ill prevail
O’er all the Imps of Doneraile.
May not one Wish or Prayer avail
To soothe the Woes of Doneraile.
May th’Inquisition straight impale
The Rapparees of Doneraile.
May Curse of Sodom now prevail
And sink to Ashes Doneraile.
May Charon’s Boat triumphant sail
Completely manned from Doneraile;
And may grim Pluto’s inner Jail
Forever groan with Doneraile;
And may my Couplets never fail
To find new Curses for Doneraile!
PAT O’KELLY
from Peter Grimes
Old Peter Grimes made Fishing his employ,
His Wife he cabin’d with him and his Boy,
And seem’d that Life laborious to enjoy:
To Town came quiet Peter with his Fish,
And had of all a civil word and wish.
He left his Trade upon the Sabbath-Day,
And took young Peter in his hand to pray;
But soon the stubborn Boy from care broke loose,
At first refus’d, then added his abuse:
His Father’s Love he scorn’d, his Power defied,
But being drunk, wept sorely when he died.
Yes! then he wept, and to his Mind there came
Much of his Conduct, and he felt the Shame, –
How he had oft the good Old Man revil’d,
And never paid the Duty of a Child:
How, when the Father in his Bible read,
He in contempt and anger left the Shed:
‘It is the Word of Life,’ the Parent cried;
– ‘This is the Life itself,’ the Boy replied;
And while Old Peter in amazement stood,
Gave the hot Spirit to his boiling Blood: –
How he, with Oath and furious Speech, began
To prove his Freedom and assert the Man;
And when the Parent check’d his impious Rage,
How he had curs’d the Tyranny of Age, –
Nay, once had dealt the sacrilegious Blow
On his bare Head and laid his Parent low:
The Father groan’d – ‘If thou art old,’ said he,
‘And hast a Son – thou wilt remember me:
Thy Mother left me in an happy Time,
Thou kill’dst not her – Heav’n spares the double Crime.’
On an Inn-settle, in his maudlin Grief,
This he revolv’d and drank for his Relief.
Now liv’d the Youth in freedom, but debarr’d
From constant Pleasure, and he thought it hard;
Hard that he could not every Wish obey,
But must awhile relinquish Ale and Play;
Hard! that he could not to his Cards attend,
But must acquire the Money he would spend.
With greedy eye he look’d on all he saw,
He knew not Justice, and he laugh’d at Law;
On all he mark’d, he stretch’d his ready Hand;
He fish’d by Water and he filch’d by Land:
Oft in the Night has Peter dropt his Oar,
Fled from his Boat and sought f
or Prey on shore;
Oft up the Hedge-row glided, on his Back
Bearing the Orchard’s Produce in a Sack,
Or Farm-yard Load, tugg’d fiercely from the Stack;
And as these Wrongs to greater numbers rose,
The more he look’d on all Men as his Foes.
GEORGE CRABBE
The School Boy
I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning’s bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?
O! father and mother, if buds are nip’d
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay,
How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year.
When the blasts of winter appear?
WILLIAM BLAKE
Holy Thursday
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine,
And their fields and bleak & bare,
And their ways are fill’d with thorns;
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e’er the sun does shine,
And where-e’er the rain does fall,
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall.
WILLIAM BLAKE
A Question Answered
What is it men in women do require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
What is it women do in men require?
The lineaments of Gratified Desire.
WILLIAM BLAKE
The Camp
Tents, marquees, and baggage-waggons;
Suttling-houses, beer in flagons;
Drums and trumpets, singing, firing;
Girls seducing, beaux admiring;
Country lasses gay and smiling,
City lads their hearts beguiling;
Dusty roads, and horses frisky,
Many an Eton Boy in whisky;
Tax’d carts full of farmers’ daughters;
Brutes condemn’d, and man who slaughters!
Public-houses, booths, and castles,
Belles of fashion, serving vassals;
Lordly gen’rals fiercely staring,
Weary soldiers, sighing, swearing!
Petit-maitres always dressing,
In the glass themselves caressing;
Perfum’d, painted, patch’d, and blooming
Ladies – manly airs assuming!
Dowagers of fifty, simp’ring,
Misses for their lovers whimp’ring;
Husbands drill’d to household tameness;
Dames heart sick of wedded sameness.
Princes setting girls a-madding,
Wives for ever fond of gadding;
Princesses with lovely faces,
Beauteous children of the Graces!
Britain’s pride and virtue’s treasure,
Fair and gracious beyond measure!
Aid-de-camps and youthful pages,
Prudes and vestals of all ages!
Old coquets and matrons surly,
Sounds of distant hurly-burly!
Mingled voices, uncouth singing,
Carts full laden, forage bringing;
Sociables and horses weary,
Houses warm, and dresses airy;
Loads of fatten’d poultry; pleasure
Serv’d (to nobles) without measure;
Doxies, who the waggons follow;
Beer, for thirsty hinds to swallow;
Washerwomen, fruit-girls cheerful,
Ancient ladies – chaste and fearful!!
Tradesmen, leaving shops, and seeming
More of war than profit dreaming;
Martial sounds and braying asses,
Noise, that ev’ry noise surpasses!
All confusion, din, and riot,
Nothing clean – and nothing quiet.
MARY ROBINSON
A Riddle
’Twas i n heaven pronounced, and ’twas muttered in hell
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell:
On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confest;
’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder.
’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,
But wo to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drown’d.
’Twill not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instandy hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,
Ah breathe on it softly – it dies in an hour.
CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE
Mary Morison
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish’d, the trysted hour;
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythly wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun;
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sigh’d, and said amang them a’,
‘Ye are na Mary Morison.’
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die!
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee.
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
ROBERT BURNS
A Red, Red Rose
My luve is like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
My luve is like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair
art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare-thee-weel, my only luve,
And fare-thee-weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten-thousand mile.
ROBERT BURNS
Ae Fond Kiss
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell and then forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae chearfu’ twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov’d sae kindly,
Had we never lov’d sae blindly,
Never met – or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, Alas! for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee.
ROBERT BURNS
Green Grow the Rashes
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,