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Part XVIIIPart XVIII
Part XVIII
Address Of Beelzebub
To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbane, President of the Right
Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May
last at the Shakespeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate
the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by
Mr. M`Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from
their lawful lords and masters whose property they were, by emigrating from
the lands of Mr. Macdonald of Glengary to the wilds of Canada, in search of
that fantastic thing-Liberty.
Long life, my Lord, an` health be yours,
Unskaithed by hunger`d Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi` dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o` a life
She likes-as butchers like a knife.
Faith you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,
Than let them ance out owre the water,
Then up among thae lakes and seas,
They`ll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed,
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o`er the pack vile, -
An` whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance-
To cowe the rebel generation,
An` save the honour o` the nation?
They, an` be d-d! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o` day?
Far less-to riches, pow`r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand`s owre light to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a` tender mercies,
An` tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they`re only poind`t and herriet,
They`ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash them a` to spails,
An` rot the dyvors i` the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an` hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they`re aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson`d!
An` if the wives an` dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an` yetts,
Flaffin wi` duds, an` grey wi` beas`,
Frightin away your ducks an` geese;
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An` gar the tatter`d gypsies pack
Wi` a` their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An` in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi` common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han` assigned your seat,
`Tween Herod`s hip an` Polycrate:
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I`m sure ye`re well deservin`t;
An` till ye come-your humble servant,
Beelzebub.
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.
A Dream
Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason;
But surely Dreams were ne`er indicted Treason.
On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate`s Ode, with the other
parade of June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he
imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee: and, in his dreaming
fancy, made the following Address:
Guid-Mornin` to our Majesty!
May Heaven augment your blisses
On ev`ry new birth-day ye see,
A humble poet wishes.
My bardship here, at your Levee
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.
I see ye`re complimented thrang,
By mony a lord an` lady;
"God save the King" `s a cuckoo sang
That`s unco easy said aye:
The poets, too, a venal gang,
Wi` rhymes weel-turn`d an` ready,
Wad gar you trow ye ne`er do wrang,
But aye unerring steady,
On sic a day.
For me! before a monarch`s face
Ev`n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;
There`s mony waur been o` the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.
`Tis very true, my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted;
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An` downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e`en right reft and clouted,
And now the third part o` the string,
An` less, will gang aboot it
Than did ae day.^1
Far be`t frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation:
But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,
Ye`ve trusted ministration
To chaps wha in barn or byre
Wad better fill`d their station
Than courts yon day.
And now ye`ve gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister,
Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester:
For me, thank God, my life`s a lease,
Nae bargain wearin` faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that, wi` the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture
I` the craft some day.
[Footnote 1: The American colonies had recently been lost.]
I`m no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An` Will`s a true guid fallow`s get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An` lessen a` your charges;
But, God-sake! let nae saving fit
Abridge your bonie barges
An`boats this day.
Adieu, my Liege; may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An` may ye rax Corruption`s neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I`m here, I`ll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,
To pay your Queen, wi` due respect,
May fealty an` subjection
This great birth-day.
Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment,
A simple poet gies ye?
Thae bonie bairntime, Heav`n has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till fate some day is sent
For ever to release ye
Frae care that day.
For you, young Potentate o`Wales,
I tell your highness fairly,
Down Pleasure`s stream, wi` swelling sails,
I`m tauld ye`re driving rarely;
But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
An` curse your folly sairly,
That e`er ye brak Diana`s pales,
Or rattl`d dice wi` Charlie
By night or day.
Yet aft a ragged cowt`s been known,
To mak a noble aiver;
So, ye may doucely fill the throne,
For a`their clish-ma-claver:
There, him^2 at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver:
And yet, wi` funny, queer Sir John,^3
He was an unco shaver
For mony a day.
For you, right rev`rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Altho` a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog,
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then swith! an` get a wife to hug,
Or trowth, ye`ll stain the mitre
Some luckless day!
Young, royal Tarry-breeks, I learn,
Ye`ve lately come athwart her-
A glorious galley,^4 stem and stern,
Weel rigg`d for Venus` barter;
But first hang out, that she`ll discern,
Your hymeneal charter;
Then heave aboard your grapple airn,
An` large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a`,
Ye royal lasses dainty,
Heav`n mak you guid as well as braw,
An` gie you lads a-plenty!
But sneer na British boys awa!
For kings are unco scant aye,
An` German gentles are but sma`,
They`re better just than want aye
On ony day.
[Footnote 2: King Henry V.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3: Sir John Falstaff, vid. Shakespeare.-R. B.]
[Footnote 4: Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain Royal sailor`s
amour.-R. B. This was Prince William Henry, third son of George III,
afterward King William IV.]
Gad bless you a`! consider now,
Ye`re unco muckle dautit;
But ere the course o` life be through,
It may be bitter sautit:
An` I hae seen their coggie fou,
That yet hae tarrow`t at it.
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautit
Fu` clean that day.
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