Then to London nymphs let it go,
And deck them in dazzling array;
Be fairest at ev'ry fine show,
And bring us the heart-cheering pay.
Then Nova's dead bell we will toll,
No more to be heard of or seen,
Unless, when beside a full bowl,
We laugh at how wretched we've been."
WHILE Phœbus reposes in Thetis's bosom,
While, white through the branches the moonlight
Here, lonely, I rove, near the old hawthorn's blos
To meet with my Matty, and stray o'er the green.
Nor hardship, nor care, now my bosom harasses,
My moments, from fame, and its nonsense are free;
Ambition I leave to the folly of asses,
For Matty is fame and ambition to me.
The great may exclaim, and with fury enclose me,
But fools, or the rabble, shall growl now in vain,
Their madness, their malice, shall ne'er discompose
Since Matty commends, and delights in my strain;
And kind is the lovely, the charming young crea-
ture;
Sweet beauty and innocence smile in her cheek;
In raptures I wander, and gaze o'er each feature,
My bosom unable its transports to speak.
When locked arm in arm we retire from the city,
To stray through the meadow or shadowy grove,
How oft do I wake her compassion and pity,
While telling some tale of unfortunate love.
Her innocent answers delight me to hear them,
For art or dissembling to her are unknown;
And false protestations she knows not to fear them,
But thinks that each heart is as kind as her own.
And lives there a villain, who born to dissemble,
Would dare an attempt to dishonour her fame,
May blackest confusion, surrounding, assemble,
And bury the wretch in distraction and shame.
Ye Powers! be my task to protect and behold her, To wander delighted with her all the day; When sadness dejects, in my arms to enfold her, And kiss, in soft raptures, her sorrows away.
But, hush! who comes yonder? 'tis Matty my dearest, The moon, how it brightens, while she treads the plain!
I'll welcome my beautiful nymph, by the nearest, And pour my whole soul in her bosom again.
O'ER the evils of life 'tis a folly to fret,
Despondence and grief never lessen'd them yet;
Then a fig for the world let it come as it goes,
I'll sing to the praise of my landlady's nose.
My landlady's nose is in noble condition,
For longitude, latitude, shape, and position,
"Tis as round as a horn, and as red as a rose,
Success to the hulk of my landlady's nose.
To jewellers' shops let your ladies repair,
For trinkets and nick-nacks to give them an air;
Here living carbuncles, a score of them glows
On the big massy sides of my landlady's nose.
Old Patrick M'Dougherty when on the fuddle,
Pulls out a cigar, and looks up to her noddle;
For Dougherty swears, when he swigs a good dose,
By Marjory's firebrand, my landlady's nose.
Ye wishy-wash butter-milk drinkers so cold,
Come here, and the virtues of brandy behold;
Here's red burning Ætna, a mountain of snows,
Would roar down in streams from my landlady's nose.
Each cavern profound of this snuff-loving snout,
Is furnished within, sir, as well as without;
O'er the brown upper lip such a cordial flows—
O the cordial brown drops of my landlady's nose.
But, Gods! when this trunk with an uplifted arm,
She grasps in the dish-clout to blow an alarm;
Horns, trumpets, and conchs are but screaming of
To the loud thundering twang of my landlady's nose.
My landlady's nose unto me is a treasure,
A care-killing nostrum- -a fountain of pleasure;
If I want for a laugh to discard all my woes,
I only look up to my landlady's nose.
Auchtertool.
TUNE,-" One bottle more."
FROM the village of Lessly, with a head full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free;
Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
To lodge ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.
Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steered,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheered;
The road I explored out without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.
A clown I accosted, inquiring the road,
He stared like an idiot, then roared out "Gude G-d,
Gin ye're gaun there for quarters ye're surely a fool,
For there's nought but starvation in old Auchtertool."
Unminding his nonsense, my march I pursued,
Till I came to a hill-top, where joyful I viewed,
Surrounded with mountains, and many a white pool,
The small smoky village of old Auchtertool.
At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
As Phoebus behind a high mountain went down;
The clouds gathered dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugged myself safe now in old Auchtertool.
An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
But the landlady's pertness seemed instantly fired;
For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
"I ne'er keep sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."
With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride,
But asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.
To his mansion I scampered, and rapt at the door,
He op'd, but as soon as I dared to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and uttered a howl,
That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.
Provoked now to fury, the dominie I curst,
And offered to cudgel the wretch, if he durst;
But the door he fast bolted, though Boreas blew cool,
And left me all friendless in old Auchtertool.
Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trod,
Till I came to a ruined old house by the road;
Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
I'll send up some prayers for old Auchtertool.
Jefferson and Liberty,
A PATRIOTIC SONG.
AIR-" Willie was a wanton wag."
THE gloomy night before us flies,
The reign of terror now is o'er,
Its gags, inquisitors, and spies,
Its herds of harpies are no more.
Rejoice! Columbia's sons, rejoice,
To tyrants never bend the knee,
But join, with heart, and soul, and voice,
For Jefferson and Liberty.
Hail! long expected, glorious day:
Illustrious, memorable morn!
That freedom's fabric, from decay,
Rebuilds for millions yet unborn.
His country's glory, hope, and stay;
In virtue and in talents tried,
Now rises to assume the sway-
O'er this great temple to preside.
Within its hallowed walls immense,
No hireling bands shall e'er arise; Arrayed in tyranny's defence,
To crush an injured people's cries. No lordling here, with gorging jaws, Shall wring from industry her food; No holy bigot's fiery laws
Lay waste our ruined fields in blood.
Here, strangers from a thousand shores,
Compelled by tyranny to roam,
Still find, amidst abundant stores,
A nobler, and a happier home.
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