mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl’d,
And Westerha’ and Hopeton hurl’d
To every Whig defiance.
But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th’ unmanner’d dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cæsarean fight,
Or Ciceronian pleading.
O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o’er each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig’s banner;
Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,
To win immortal honour.
M’Murdo[95] and his lovely spouse,
(Th’ enamour’d laurels kiss her brows!)
Led on the loves and graces:
She won each gaping burgess’ heart,
While he, all-conquering, play’d his part
Among their wives and lasses.
Craigdarroch[96] led a light-arm’d corps,
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour,
Like Hecla streaming thunder:
Glenriddel,[97] skill’d in rusty coins,
Blew up each Tory’s dark designs,
And bar’d the treason under.
In either wing two champions fought,
Redoubted Staig[98] who set at nought
The wildest savage Tory:
And Welsh,[99] who ne’er yet flinch’d his ground,
High-wav’d his magnum-bonum round
With Cyclopeian fury.
Miller brought up th’ artillery ranks,
The many-pounders of the Banks,
Resistless desolation!
While Maxwelton, that baron bold,
‘Mid Lawson’s[100] port intrench’d his hold,
And threaten’d worse damnation.
To these what Tory hosts oppos’d,
With these what Tory warriors clos’d.
Surpasses my descriving:
Squadrons extended long and large,
With furious speed rush to the charge,
Like raging devils driving.
What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate
Amid this mighty tulzie!
Grim Horror grinn’d—pale Terror roar’d,
As Murther at his thrapple shor’d,
And hell mix’d in the brulzie.
As highland craigs by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,
Hurl down with crashing rattle:
As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods;
Such is the rage of battle!
The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly
Before the approaching fellers:
The Whigs come on like Ocean’s roar,
When all his wintry billows pour
Against the Buchan Bullers.
Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,
And think on former daring:
The muffled murtherer[101] of Charles
The Magna Charter flag unfurls,
All deadly gules it’s bearing.
Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.
Bold Scrimgeour[102] follows gallant Graham,[103]
Auld Covenanters shiver.
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong’d Montrose!
Now death and hell engulph thy foes,
Thou liv’st on high for ever!)
Still o’er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But fate the word has spoken:
For woman’s wit and strength o’ man,
Alas! can do but what they can!
The Tory ranks are broken.
O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns
Her darling cubs’ undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,
And furious Whigs pursuing!
What Whig but melts for good Sir James!
Dear to his country by the names
Friend, patron, benefactor!
Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save!
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!
And Stewart,[104] bold as Hector.
Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;
And Melville melt in wailing!
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all prevailing!
For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,
A cool spectator purely;
So, when the storm the forests rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And sober chirps securely.
CXVI. ON CAPTAIN GROSE’S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM
[This “fine, fat, fodgel wight” was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armor of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social “board of Glenriddel,” for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.]
Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s;
If