Adown each side of his sequestered cot,
Two bubbling streamlets wind their rocky way,
And mingling, as they leave this rural spot,
Down thro' a woody vale, meand'ring stray;
Round many a moss-grown rock they dimplin play,
Where laurel thickets clothe the steeps around,
And oaks, thick towering, quite shut out the day,
And spread a venerable gloom profound,
Made still more sweetly solemn by the riv'let's sound.
Where down smooth glistering rocks it rambling
Till in a pool its silent waters sleep,
A dark brown cliff, o'ertopt with fern and flowers,
Hangs grimly frowning o'er the glassy deep;
Above, thro' every chink, the woodbines creep,
And smooth barked beeches spread their arms
around,
Whose roots cling, twisted, round the rocky steep.
A more sequestered scene is no where found,
For contemplation deep, and silent thought profound.
Here many a tour the lonely tutor takes,
Long known to Solitude his partner dear;
For rustling woods, his empty school forsakes,
At morn, still noon, and silent evening clear.
Wild Nature's scenes amuse his wanderings here,
The old grey rocks, that overhang the stream,
The nodding flowers that on their peaks appear,
Plants, birds, and insects, are a feast to him,
Howe'er obscure, deformed, minute, or huge they
Sweet rural scenes! unknown to poet's song,
Where Nature's charms in rich profusion lie,
Birds, fruits, and flowers, an ever-pleasing throng,
Denied to Britain's bleak and northern sky.
Here Freedom smiles serene with dauntless eye,
And leads the exiled stranger thro' her groves,
Assists to sweep the forest from on high,
And gives to man the fruitful field he loves,
Where proud imperious lord, or tyrant, never roves.
In these green solitudes one favourite spot,
Still draws his lone slow wanderings that way,
A mossy cliff, beside a little grot,
Where two clear springs burst out upon the day;
There, overhead, the beechen branches play,
And from the rock, the clustered columbine,
While, deep below, the brook is seen to stray
O'erhung with alders, briar, and mantling vine,
While on th' adjacent banks the glossy laurels shine.
Here Milton's heavenly themes delight his soul,
Or Goldsmith's simple heart-bewitching lays,
Now drives with look around the frozen pole,
Or follows Bruce, with marvel and amaze.
Perhaps Rome's splendour sadly he surveys,
Or Britain's scenes of cruelty and kings,
Thro' Georgia's groves with gentle Bartram strays,
Or mounts with Newton on archangel's wings,
With manly Smollet laughs, and jovial Dibdin sings.
The air serene, and breathing odours sweet,
The sound of falling streams and humming bees,
Wild choirs of songsters round his rural seat,
To souls like his have every power to please.
The shades of night, with rising sigh he sees
Obscure the sweet and leafy scene around;
And, homeward bending, thro' the moonlight trees,
The owl salutes him with her trem'lous sound,
And many a fluttering bat pursues its mazy round.
Thus, peaceful pass his lonely hours away,
Thus, in retirement from his school affairs,
He tastes a bliss unknown to worldlings gay;
A soothing antidote for all his cares.
Adoring nature's God, he joyous shares
With happy millions, freedom's fairest scene;
His evening hymn, some plaintive Scottish airs,
Breathed from the flute, or melting violin,
With life-inspiring airs, and wanton jigs between.
The Shark,
OR LANG MILLS DETECTED.
"Yes, while I live, no rude or sordid knave
Shall walk the world in credit to his grave."
YE weaver blades! ye noble chiels!
Wha fill our land wi' plenty,
And mak our vera barest fiel's
To wave wi' ilka dainty,
Defend yoursels! tak sicker heed!
I warn you as a brither,
Or Shark's resolved, wi' hellish greed,
To gorge us a' thegither,
At ance this day.
In gude's-name will we ne'er get free
O' thieves and persecution!
Will Satan never let a be
To plot our dissolution!
Ae scoun'rel sinks us to the pit,
Wi' his eternal curses,
Anither granes, and prays,—and yet
Contrives to toom our purses,
Maist every day.
A higher aim gars Willy think,
And deeper schemes he's brewin;
Ten thousan' fouk at ance to sink
To poverty and ruin!
Hail mighty patriot! Noble soul!
Sae generous, and sae civil,
Sic vast designs deserve the whole
Applauses of the devil,
In vain we've toiled wi' head and heart,
And constant deep inspection,
For years on years, to bring this art
So nearly to perfection;
The mair that art and skill deserve,
The greedier Will advances, And saws and barrels only serve
To heighten our expenses
And wrath this day.
But know, to thy immortal shame,
While stands a paper-spot
So long, great Squeeze-the-poor! thy fame
Thy blasted fame shall rot,
And as a brick, or limestane kiln
Wi' sooty reek advances,
So grateful shall thy mem'ry still
Be to our bitter senses,
Lang Willy Shark wi' greedy snout
Had sneaked about the C-n—l,
To eat his beef, and booze about,
Nor proved at drinking punch ill,
Till, Judas-like, he got the bag,
And squeezed it to a jelly,
Thae war the days for Will to brag,
And blest times for the belly
Ilk ither day.
The mair we get by heuk and cruk
We aften grow the greedier,
Shark raiket now through every neuk To harl till him speedier:
His ghastly conscience, pale and spent, Was summoned up, right clever, Syne, wi' an execration, sent
Aff, henceforth and for ever,
Frae him that day.
This done, trade snoovt awa wi' skill
And wonderfu' extention,
And widen't soon was every mill,
(A dexterous invention!)
Groat after groat, was clippet aff,
Frae ae thing and anither,
Till fouk began to think on draff,
To help to haud thegither
Their banes that day.
Now, round frae cork to cork he trots Wi' eagerness and rigour,
And "Rump the petticoats and spots!" His Sharkship roared wi' vigour ;
But, whan his harnishes cam in
In dizens in a morning,
And a' grew desolate and grim,
His rapture changed to mourning,
And rage that day.
Thus Haman, in the days of yore,
Pufft up wi' spitefu' evil,
Amang his blackguard, wicked core
Contrived to play the devil;
High stood the gibbet's dismal cape,
But little thought the sinner
That he had caft the vera rape
Wad rax his neck, e'er dinner
Was owre that day.
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