THE
PROPHECY
of
FAMINE
.
A
SCOTS
PASTORAL
.
WHEN
CUPID
first
instructs
his
darts
to
fly
From
the
sly
corner
of
some
cook-maid's
eye
,
The
stripling
raw
,
just
enter'd
in
his
teens
,
Receives
the
wound
,
and
wonders
what
it
means
;
His
heart
,
like
dripping
,
melts
,
and
new
desire
Within
him
stirs
,
each
time
she
stirs
the
fire
;
Trembling
and
blushing
he
the
fair
one
views
,
And
fain
would
speak
,
but
can't
—
without
a
MUSE
.
So
,
to
the
sacred
mount
he
takes
his
way
,
Prunes
his
young
wings
,
and
tunes
his
infant
lay
,
His
oaten
reed
to
rural
ditties
frames
,
To
flocks
and
rocks
,
to
hills
and
rills
proclaims
,
In
simplest
notes
,
and
all
unpolish'd
strains
,
The
loves
of
nymphs
,
and
eke
the
loves
of
swains
.
Clad
,
as
your
nymphs
were
always
clad
of
yore
,
In
rustic
weeds
—
a
cook-maid
now
no
more
—
Beneath
an
aged
oak
LARDELLA
lies
—
Green
moss
,
her
couch
;
her
canopy
,
the
skies
.
From
aromatic
shrubs
the
roguish
gale
Steals
young
perfumes
,
and
wafts
them
thro'
the
vale
.
The
youth
,
turn'd
swain
,
and
skill'd
in
rustic
lays
,
Fast
by
her
side
his
am'rous
descant
plays
.
Herds
lowe
,
Flocks
bleat
,
Pies
chatter
,
Ravens
scream
,
And
the
full
chorus
dies
a-down
the
stream
.
The
streams
,
with
music
freighted
,
as
they
pass
,
Present
the
fair
LARDELLA
with
a
glass
,
And
ZEPHYR
,
to
compleat
the
love-sick
plan
,
Waves
his
light
wings
,
and
serves
her
for
a
fan
.
But
when
maturer
Judgment
takes
the
lead
,
These
childish
toys
on
Reason's
altar
bleed
,
Form'd
after
some
great
man
,
whose
name
breeds
awe
,
Whose
ev'ry
sentence
Fashion
makes
a
law
,
Who
on
mere
credit
his
vain
trophies
rears
,
And
founds
his
merit
on
our
servile
fears
;
Then
we
discard
the
workings
of
the
heart
,
And
nature's
banish'd
by
mechanic
art
.
Then
,
deeply
read
,
our
reading
must
be
shewn
;
Vain
is
that
knowledge
which
remains
unknown
.
Then
OSTENTATION
marches
to
our
aid
,
And
letter'd
PRIDE
stalks
forth
in
full
parade
,
Beneath
their
care
behold
the
work
refine
,
Pointed
each
sentence
,
polish'd
ev'ry
line
.
Trifles
are
dignified
,
and
taught
to
wear
The
robes
of
Antients
with
a
Modern
air
,
NONSENSE
with
Classic
ornaments
is
grac'd
,
And
passes
current
with
the
stamp
of
TASTE
.
Then
the
rude
THEOCRITE
is
ransack'd
o'er
,
And
courtly
MARO
call'd
from
MINCIO's
shore
;
Sicilian
muses
on
our
mountains
roam
,
Easy
and
free
as
if
they
were
at
home
;
NYMPHS
,
NAIADS
,
NEREIDS
,
DRYADS
,
SATYRS
,
FAUNS
,
Sport
in
our
floods
,
and
trip
it
o'er
our
lawns
;
Flow'rs
which
once
flourish'd
fair
in
GREECE
and
ROME
,
More
fair
revive
in
ENGLAND's
meads
to
bloom
;
Skies
without
cloud
exotic
suns
adorn
;
And
roses
blush
,
but
blush
without
a
thorn
;
Landscapes
,
unknown
to
dowdy
Nature
,
rise
,
And
new
creations
strike
our
wond'ring
eyes
.
For
bards
,
like
these
,
who
neither
sing
nor
say
,
Grave
without
thought
,
and
without
feeling
gay
,
Whose
numbers
in
one
even
tenor
flow
,
Attun'd
to
pleasure
,
and
attun'd
to
woe
,
Who
,
if
plain
COMMON-SENSE
her
visit
pays
,
And
mars
one
couplet
in
their
happy
lays
,
As
at
some
Ghost
affrighted
,
start
and
stare
,
And
ask
the
meaning
of
her
coming
there
;
For
bards
like
these
a
wreath
shall
MASON
bring
,
Lin'd
with
the
softest
down
from
FOLLY's
wing
;
In
LOVE's
PAGODA
,
shall
they
ever
doze
,
And
GISBEL
kindly
rock
them
to
repose
;
My
lord
,
—
to
letters
as
to
faith
most
true
—
At
once
their
patron
and
example
too
—
Shall
quaintly
fashion
his
love-labour'd
dreams
,
Sigh
with
sad
winds
,
and
weep
with
weeping
streams
,
Curious
in
grief
,
(
for
real
grief
we
know
Is
curious
to
dress
up
the
tale
of
woe
)
From
the
green
umbrage
of
some
DRUID's
seat
,
Shall
his
own
works
in
his
own
way
repeat
.
Me
,
whom
no
muse
of
heav'nly
birth
inspires
,
No
judgment
tempers
when
rash
genius
fires
,
Who
boast
no
merit
but
mere
knack
of
rhime
,
Short
gleams
of
sense
,
and
satire
out
of
time
,
Who
cannot
follow
where
trim
fancy
leads
By
prattling
streams
o'er
flow'r-empurpled
meads
;
Who
often
,
but
without
success
,
have
pray'd
For
apt
ALLITERATION's
artful
aid
,
Who
would
,
but
cannot
,
with
a
master's
skill
Coin
fine
new
epithets
,
which
mean
no
ill
,
Me
,
thus
uncouth
,
thus
ev'ry
way
unfit
For
pacing
poesy
,
and
ambling
wit
,
TASTE
with
contempt
beholds
,
nor
deigns
to
place
Amongst
the
lowest
of
her
favour'd
race
.
Thou
NATURE
,
art
my
goddess
—
to
thy
law
Myself
I
dedicate
—
hence
slavish
awe
Which
bends
to
fashion
,
and
obeys
the
rules
Impos'd
at
first
,
and
since
observ'd
by
fools
.
Hence
those
vile
tricks
which
mar
fair
NATURE's
hue
,
And
bring
the
sober
matron
forth
to
view
,
With
all
that
artificial
tawdry
glare
,
Which
virtue
scorns
,
and
none
but
strumpets
wear
.
Sick
of
those
pomps
,
those
vanities
,
that
waste
Of
toil
,
which
critics
now
mistake
for
taste
,
Of
false
refinements
sick
,
and
labour'd
ease
Which
Art
,
too
thinly
veil'd
,
forbids
to
please
,
By
Nature's
charms
(
inglorious
truth
!
)
subdued
,
However
plain
her
dress
,
and
haviour
rude
,
To
northern
climes
my
happier
course
I
steer
,
Climes
where
the
Goddess
reigns
throughout
the
year
,
Where
,
undisturb'd
by
Art's
rebellious
plan
,
She
rules
the
loyal
Laird
,
and
faithful
clan
.
To
that
rare
soil
,
where
virtues
clust'ring
grow
,
What
mighty
blessings
doth
not
ENGLAND
owe
,
What
waggon-loads
of
courage
,
wit
and
sense
,
Doth
each
revolving
day
import
from
thence
?
To
us
she
gives
,
disinterested
friend
,
Faith
without
fraud
and
STUARTS
without
end
.
When
we
prosperity's
rich
trappings
wear
,
Come
not
her
gen'rous
sons
,
and
take
a
share
,
And
if
,
by
some
disastrous
turn
of
fate
,
Change
should
ensue
,
and
ruin
sieze
our
state
,
Shall
we
not
find
,
safe
in
that
hallow'd
ground
,
Such
refuge
,
as
the
HOLY
MARTYR
found
?
Nor
less
our
debt
in
SCIENCE
,
tho'
denied
By
the
weak
slaves
of
prejudice
and
pride
.
Thence
came
the
RAMSAYS
,
names
of
worthy
note
,
Of
whom
one
paints
,
as
well
as
t'other
wrote
;
Thence
HOME
,
disbanded
from
the
sons
of
pray'r
,
For
loving
plays
,
tho'
no
dull
DEAN
was
there
;
Thence
issued
forth
,
at
great
MACPHERSON's
call
,
That
old
,
new
,
Epic
Pastoral
,
FINGAL
;
Thence
simple
bards
,
by
simple
prudence
taught
,
To
this
wise
town
by
simple
patrons
brought
,
In
simple
manner
utter
simple
lays
,
And
take
,
with
simple
pensions
,
simple
praise
.
Waft
me
some
muse
to
TWEDE's
inspiring
stream
,
Where
all
the
little
loves
and
graces
dream
,
Where
slowly
winding
the
dull
waters
creep
,
And
seem
themselves
to
own
the
power
of
sleep
,
duplicate
duplicate
Where
on
the
surface
Lead
,
like
feathers
,
swims
;
There
let
me
bathe
my
yet
unhallow'd
limbs
,
As
once
a
SYRIAN
bath'd
in
JORDAN's
flood
,
Wash
off
my
native
stains
,
correct
that
blood
Which
mutinies
at
call
of
English
pride
,
And
,
deaf
to
prudence
,
rolls
a
patriot
tide
.
From
solemn
thought
,
which
overhangs
the
brow
Of
patriot
care
,
when
things
are
—
God
knows
how
;
From
nice
trim
points
,
where
HONOUR
,
slave
to
rule
,
In
compliment
to
folly
,
plays
the
fool
;
From
those
gay
scenes
,
where
mirth
exalts
his
pow'r
,
And
easy
Humour
wings
the
laughing
hour
;
From
those
soft
better
moments
,
when
desire
Beats
high
,
and
all
the
world
of
man's
on
fire
,
When
mutual
ardours
of
the
melting
fair
More
than
repay
us
for
whole
years
of
care
,
At
Friendship's
summons
will
my
WILKES
retreat
,
And
see
,
once
seen
before
,
that
antient
seat
,
That
antient
seat
,
where
majesty
display'd
Her
ensigns
,
long
before
the
world
was
made
?
Mean
narrow
maxims
,
which
enslave
mankind
,
Ne'er
from
its
bias
warp
thy
settled
mind
.
Not
dup'd
by
party
,
nor
opinion's
slave
,
Those
faculties
which
bounteous
Nature
gave
Thy
honest
spirit
into
practice
brings
,
Nor
courts
the
smile
,
nor
dreads
the
frown
of
Kings
.
Let
rude
licentious
Englishmen
comply
With
tumult's
voice
,
and
curse
they
know
not
why
;
Unwilling
to
condemn
,
thy
soul
disdains
,
To
wear
vile
faction's
arbitrary
chains
,
And
strictly
weighs
,
in
apprehension
clear
,
Things
as
they
are
,
and
not
as
they
appear
.
With
thee
GOOD-HUMOUR
tempers
lively
WIT
,
Enthron'd
with
JUDGMENT
,
CANDOUR
loves
to
sit
,
And
Nature
gave
thee
,
open
to
distress
,
A
heart
to
pity
,
and
a
hand
to
bless
.
Oft
have
I
heard
thee
mourn
the
wretched
lot
Of
the
poor
,
mean
,
despis'd
,
insulted
Scot
,
Who
,
might
calm
reason
credit
idle
tales
,
By
rancour
forg'd
where
prejudice
prevails
,
Or
starves
at
home
,
or
practises
,
thro'
fear
Of
starving
,
arts
which
damn
all
conscience
here
.
When
Scriblers
,
to
the
charge
by
int'rest
led
,
The
fierce
North-Briton
foaming
at
their
head
,
Pour
forth
invectives
,
deaf
to
candour's
call
,
And
,
injur'd
by
one
alien
,
rail
at
all
;
On
Northern
Pisgah
when
they
take
their
stand
,
To
mark
the
weakness
of
that
Holy
Land
,
With
needless
truths
their
libels
to
adorn
,
And
hang
a
nation
up
to
public
scorn
,
Thy
gen'rous
soul
condemns
the
frantic
rage
,
And
hates
the
faithful
,
but
ill-natur'd
,
page
.
The
Scots
are
poor
,
cries
surly
English
pride
;
True
is
the
charge
,
nor
by
themselves
denied
.
Are
they
not
then
in
strictest
reason
clear
,
Who
wisely
come
to
mend
their
fortunes
here
?
If
by
low
supple
arts
successful
grown
,
They
sapp'd
our
vigour
to
increase
their
own
,
If
,
mean
in
want
,
and
insolent
in
pow'r
,
They
only
fawn'd
,
more
surely
to
devour
,
Rous'd
by
such
wrongs
should
REASON
take
alarm
,
And
e'en
the
MUSE
for
public
safety
arm
;
But
if
they
own
,
ingenuous
,
virtue's
sway
,
And
follow
where
true
honour
points
the
way
,
If
they
revere
the
hand
by
which
they're
fed
,
And
bless
the
donors
for
their
daily
bread
,
Or
by
vast
debts
of
higher
import
bound
,
Are
always
humble
,
always
grateful
found
,
If
they
,
directed
by
PAUL's
holy
pen
,
Become
discreetly
all
things
to
all
men
,
That
all
men
may
become
all
things
to
them
,
Envy
may
hate
,
but
justice
can't
condemn
.
"
Into
our
places
,
states
,
and
beds
they
creep
:
"
They've
sense
to
get
,
what
we
want
sense
to
keep
.
Once
,
be
the
hour
accurs'd
,
accurs'd
the
place
,
I
ventur'd
to
blaspheme
the
chosen
race
.
Into
those
traps
,
which
men
,
call'd
PATRIOTS
,
laid
,
By
specious
arts
unwarily
betray'd
,
Madly
I
leagu'd
against
that
sacred
earth
,
Vile
parricide
!
which
gave
a
parent
birth
.
But
shall
I
meanly
error's
path
pursue
,
When
heav'nly
TRUTH
presents
her
friendly
clue
?
Once
plung'd
in
ill
,
shall
I
go
farther
in
?
To
make
the
oath
,
was
rash
;
to
keep
it
,
sin
.
Backward
I
tread
the
paths
I
trod
before
,
And
calm
reflection
hates
what
passion
swore
.
Converted
,
(
blessed
are
the
souls
which
know
Those
pleasures
which
from
true
conversion
flow
,
Whether
to
reason
,
who
now
rules
my
breast
,
Or
to
pure
faith
,
like
LYTTLETON
and
WEST
)
Past
crimes
to
expiate
be
my
present
aim
,
To
raise
new
trophies
to
the
SCOTTISH
name
,
To
make
(
what
can
the
proudest
Muse
do
more
)
E'en
faction's
sons
her
brighter
worth
adore
,
To
make
her
glories
,
stamp'd
with
honest
rhimes
,
In
fullest
tide
roll
down
to
latest
times
.
Presumptuous
wretch
!
and
shall
a
Muse
like
thine
,
An
English
Muse
,
the
meanest
of
the
nine
,
Attempt
a
theme
like
this
?
Can
her
weak
strain
Expect
indulgence
from
the
mighty
THANE
?
Should
he
from
toils
of
government
retire
,
And
for
a
moment
fan
the
poet's
fire
,
Should
he
,
of
sciences
the
moral
friend
,
Each
curious
,
each
important
search
suspend
,
Leave
unassisted
HILL
of
herbs
to
tell
,
And
all
the
wonders
of
a
Cockle-shell
,
Having
the
Lord's
good
grace
before
his
eyes
,
Would
not
the
HOME
step
forth
,
and
gain
the
prize
?
Or
if
this
wreath
of
honour
might
adorn
The
humble
brows
of
one
in
England
born
,
Presumptuous
still
thy
daring
must
appear
;
Vain
all
thy
tow'ring
hopes
,
whilst
I
am
here
.
Thus
spake
a
form
,
by
silken
smile
,
and
tone
Dull
and
unvaried
,
for
the
LAUREAT
known
,
FOLLY's
chief
friend
,
DECORUM's
eldest
son
,
In
ev'ry
party
found
,
and
yet
of
none
.
This
airy
substance
,
this
substantial
shade
Abash'd
I
heard
,
and
with
respect
obey'd
.
From
themes
too
lofty
for
a
bard
so
mean
Discretion
beckons
to
an
humbler
scene
.
The
restless
fever
of
ambition
laid
,
Calm
I
retire
,
and
seek
the
sylvan
shade
.
Now
be
the
Muse
disrob'd
of
all
her
pride
,
Be
all
the
glare
of
verse
by
Truth
supplied
,
And
if
plain
nature
pours
a
simple
strain
,
Which
BUTE
may
praise
,
and
OSSIAN
not
disdain
,
OSSIAN
,
sublimest
,
simplest
Bard
of
all
,
Whom
English
Infidels
,
MACPHERSON
call
,
Then
round
my
head
shall
honour's
ensigns
wave
,
And
pensions
mark
me
for
a
willing
slave
.
Two
boys
,
whose
birth
beyond
all
question
springs
From
great
and
glorious
,
tho'
forgotten
,
kings
,
Shepherds
of
Scottish
lineage
,
born
and
bred
On
the
same
bleak
and
barren
mountain's
head
,
By
niggard
nature
doom'd
on
the
same
rocks
To
spin
out
life
,
and
starve
themselves
and
flocks
,
Fresh
as
the
morning
,
which
,
enrob'd
in
mist
,
The
mountain
top
with
usual
dulness
kiss'd
,
JOCKEY
and
SAWNEY
to
their
labours
rose
;
Soon
clad
I
ween
,
where
nature
needs
no
cloaths
,
Where
,
from
their
youth
enur'd
to
winter
skies
,
Dress
and
her
vain
refinements
they
despise
.
JOCKEY
,
whose
manly
high-bon'd
cheeks
to
crown
With
freckles
spotted
flam'd
the
golden
down
,
With
mickle
art
,
could
on
the
bagpipes
play
,
E'en
from
the
rising
to
the
setting
day
;
SAWNEY
as
long
without
remorse
could
bawl
HOME's
madrigals
,
and
ditties
from
FINGAL
.
Oft
at
his
strains
,
all
natural
tho'
rude
,
The
Highland
Lass
forgot
her
want
of
food
,
And
,
whilst
she
scratch'd
her
lover
into
rest
,
Sunk
pleas'd
,
tho'
hungry
,
on
her
SAWNEY's
breast
.
Far
as
the
eye
could
reach
,
no
tree
was
seen
,
Earth
,
clad
in
russet
,
scorn'd
the
lively
green
.
The
plague
of
Locusts
they
secure
defy
,
For
in
three
hours
a
grashopper
must
die
.
No
living
thing
,
whate'er
its
food
,
feasts
there
,
But
the
Camaelion
,
who
can
feast
on
air
.
No
birds
,
except
as
birds
of
passage
flew
,
No
bee
was
known
to
hum
,
no
dove
to
coo
.
No
streams
as
amber
smooth
,
as
amber
clear
,
Were
seen
to
glide
,
or
heard
to
warble
here
,
Rebellion's
spring
,
which
thro'
the
country
ran
,
Furnish'd
,
with
bitter
draughts
,
the
steady
clan
.
No
flow'rs
embalm'd
the
air
,
but
one
white
rose
,
Which
,
on
the
tenth
of
June
,
by
instinct
blows
,
By
instinct
blows
at
morn
,
and
,
when
the
shades
Of
drizly
eve
prevail
,
by
instinct
fades
.
One
,
and
but
one
poor
solitary
cave
,
Too
sparing
of
her
favours
,
nature
gave
;
That
one
alone
(
hard
tax
on
Scottish
pride
)
Shelter
at
once
for
man
and
beast
supplied
.
Their
snares
without
entangling
briers
spread
,
And
thistles
,
arm'd
against
th'
invader's
head
,
Stood
in
close
ranks
all
entrance
to
oppose
,
Thistles
now
held
more
precious
than
the
rose
.
All
Creatures
,
which
,
on
nature's
earliest
plan
,
Were
form'd
to
loath
,
and
to
be
loath'd
by
man
,
Which
ow'd
their
birth
to
nastiness
and
spite
,
Deadly
to
touch
,
and
hateful
to
the
sight
,
Creatures
,
which
,
when
admitted
in
the
ark
,
Their
Saviour
shunn'd
,
and
rankled
in
the
dark
,
Found
place
within
;
marking
her
noisome
road
With
poison's
trail
,
here
crawl'd
the
bloated
Toad
;
There
webs
were
spread
of
more
than
common
size
,
And
half-starv'd
spiders
prey'd
on
half-starv'd
flies
;
In
quest
of
food
,
Efts
strove
in
vain
to
crawl
;
Slugs
,
pinch'd
with
hunger
,
smear'd
the
slimy
wall
;
The
cave
around
with
hissing
serpents
rung
;
On
the
damp
roof
unhealthy
vapour
hung
,
And
FAMINE
,
by
her
children
always
known
,
As
proud
as
poor
,
here
fix'd
her
native
throne
.
Here
,
for
the
sullen
sky
was
overcast
,
And
summer
shrunk
beneath
a
wintry
blast
,
A
native
blast
,
which
arm'd
with
hail
and
rain
Beat
unrelenting
on
the
naked
swain
,
The
boys
for
shelter
made
;
behind
the
sheep
,
Of
which
those
shepherds
ev'ry
day
take
keep
,
Sickly
crept
on
,
and
,
with
complainings
rude
,
On
nature
seem'd
to
call
,
and
bleat
for
food
.
JOCKEY
.
Sith
to
this
cave
,
by
tempest
,
we're
confin'd
,
And
within
ken
our
flocks
,
under
the
wind
,
Safe
from
the
pelting
of
this
perilous
storm
,
Are
laid
emong
yon
thistles
,
dry
and
warm
,
What
,
Sawney
,
if
by
shepherd's
arts
we
try
To
mock
the
rigour
of
this
cruel
sky
?
What
if
we
tune
some
merry
roundelay
?
Well
dost
thou
sing
,
nor
ill
doth
Jockey
play
.
SAWNEY
.
Ah
,
Jockey
,
ill
advisest
thou
,
I
wis
,
To
think
of
songs
at
such
a
time
as
this
.
Sooner
shall
herbage
crown
these
barren
rocks
,
Sooner
shall
fleeces
cloath
these
ragged
flocks
,
Sooner
shall
want
sieze
shepherds
of
the
south
,
And
we
forget
to
live
from
hand
to
mouth
,
Than
Sawney
,
out
of
season
,
shall
impart
The
songs
of
gladness
with
an
aching
heart
.
JOCKEY
.
Still
have
I
known
thee
for
a
silly
swain
;
Of
things
past
help
,
what
boots
it
to
complain
?
Nothing
but
mirth
can
conquer
fortune's
spite
;
No
sky
is
heavy
,
if
the
heart
be
light
:
Patience
is
sorrow's
salve
;
what
can't
be
cur'd
,
So
Donald
right
areeds
,
must
be
endur'd
.
SAWNEY
.
Full
silly
swain
,
I
wot
,
is
Jockey
now
;
How
did'st
thou
bear
thy
MAGGY's
falshood
?
how
,
When
with
a
foreign
loon
she
stole
away
,
Did'st
thou
forswear
thy
pipe
,
and
shepherd's
lay
?
Where
was
thy
boasted
wisdom
then
,
when
I
Applied
those
proverbs
,
which
you
now
apply
?
JOCKEY
.
O
she
was
bonny
!
all
the
Highlands
round
Was
there
a
rival
to
my
MAGGY
found
!
More
precious
(
tho'
that
precious
is
to
all
)
Than
the
rare
medicine
,
which
we
Brimstone
call
,
Or
that
choice
plant
,
so
grateful
to
the
nose
,
Which
in
,
I
know
not
what
,
far
country
grows
,
Was
MAGGY
unto
me
;
dear
do
I
rue
,
A
lass
so
fair
should
ever
prove
untrue
.
SAWNEY
.
Whether
with
pipe
or
song
to
charm
the
ear
,
Thro'
all
the
land
did
JAMIE
find
a
peer
?
Curs'd
be
that
year
by
ev'ry
honest
Scot
,
And
in
the
shepherd's
calendar
forgot
,
That
fatal
year
,
when
JAMIE
,
hapless
swain
,
In
evil
hour
forsook
the
peaceful
plain
,
JAMIE
,
when
our
young
Laird
discreetly
fled
,
Was
seiz'd
,
and
hang'd
till
he
was
dead
,
dead
,
dead
.
JOCKEY
.
Full
sorely
may
we
all
lament
that
day
:
For
all
were
losers
in
the
deadly
fray
.
Five
brothers
had
I
,
on
the
Scottish
plains
,
Well
dost
thou
know
,
were
none
more
hopeful
swains
;
Five
brothers
there
I
lost
,
in
manhood's
pride
,
Two
in
the
field
,
and
three
on
gibbets
died
;
Ah
!
silly
swains
,
to
follow
war's
alarms
,
Ah
!
what
hath
shepherd's
life
to
do
with
arms
?
SAWNEY
.
Mention
it
not
—
there
saw
I
strangers
clad
In
all
the
honours
of
our
ravish'd
Plaid
,
Saw
the
FERRARA
too
,
our
nation's
pride
,
Unwilling
grace
the
aukward
victor's
side
.
There
fell
our
choicest
youth
,
and
from
that
day
Mote
never
Sawney
tune
the
merry
lay
:
Bless'd
those
which
fell
!
curs'd
those
which
still
survive
,
To
mourn
fifteen
renew'd
in
forty-five
.
Thus
plain'd
the
boys
,
when
from
her
throne
of
turf
,
With
boils
emboss'd
,
and
overgrown
with
scurf
,
Vile
humours
,
which
,
in
life's
corrupted
well
Mix'd
at
the
birth
,
not
abstinence
could
quell
,
Pale
FAMINE
rear'd
the
head
;
her
eager
eyes
,
Where
hunger
e'en
to
madness
seem'd
to
rise
,
Speaking
aloud
her
throes
and
pangs
of
heart
,
Strain'd
to
get
loose
,
and
from
their
orbs
to
start
;
Her
hollow
cheeks
were
each
a
deep-sunk
cell
,
Where
wretchedness
and
horror
lov'd
to
dwell
;
With
double
rows
of
useless
teeth
supplied
,
Her
mouth
,
from
ear
to
ear
,
extended
wide
,
Which
,
when
for
want
of
food
her
entrails
pin'd
,
She
op'd
,
and
cursing
swallow'd
nought
but
wind
;
All
shrivell'd
was
her
skin
;
and
here
and
there
,
Making
their
way
by
force
,
her
bones
lay
bare
;
Such
filthy
sight
to
hide
from
human
view
,
O'er
her
foul
limbs
a
tatter'd
Plaid
she
threw
.
Cease
,
cried
the
Goddess
,
cease
,
despairing
swains
,
And
from
a
parent
hear
what
Jove
ordains
!
Pent
in
this
barren
corner
of
the
isle
,
Where
partial
fortune
never
deign'd
to
smile
;
Like
nature's
bastards
,
reaping
for
our
share
What
was
rejected
by
the
lawful
heir
;
Unknown
amongst
the
nations
of
the
earth
,
Or
only
known
to
raise
contempt
and
mirth
;
Long
free
,
because
the
race
of
Roman
braves
Thought
it
not
worth
their
while
to
make
us
slaves
;
Then
into
bondage
by
that
nation
brought
,
Whose
ruin
we
for
ages
vainly
sought
,
Whom
still
with
unslack'd
hate
we
view
,
and
still
,
The
pow'r
of
mischief
lost
,
retain
the
will
;
Consider'd
as
the
refuse
of
mankind
,
A
mass
till
the
last
moment
left
behind
,
Which
frugal
nature
doubted
,
as
it
lay
,
Whether
to
stamp
with
life
,
or
throw
away
;
Which
,
form'd
in
haste
,
was
planted
in
this
nook
,
But
never
enter'd
in
Creation's
book
;
Branded
as
traitors
,
who
,
for
love
of
gold
,
Would
sell
their
God
,
as
once
their
King
they
sold
;
Long
have
we
born
this
mighty
weight
of
ill
,
These
vile
injurious
taunts
,
and
bear
them
still
,
But
times
of
happier
note
are
now
at
hand
,
And
the
full
promise
of
a
better
land
:
There
,
like
the
Sons
of
Israel
,
having
trod
,
For
the
fix'd
term
of
years
ordain'd
by
God
,
A
barren
desart
,
we
shall
sieze
rich
plains
Where
milk
with
honey
flows
,
and
plenty
reigns
.
With
some
few
natives
join'd
,
some
pliant
few
,
Who
worship
int'rest
,
and
our
track
pursue
,
There
shall
we
,
tho'
the
wretched
people
grieve
,
Ravage
at
large
,
nor
ask
the
owner's
leave
.
For
us
,
the
earth
shall
bring
forth
her
increase
;
For
us
,
the
flocks
shall
wear
a
golden
fleece
;
Fat
Beeves
shall
yield
us
dainties
not
our
own
,
And
the
grape
bleed
a
nectar
yet
unknown
;
For
our
advantage
shall
their
harvests
grow
,
And
Scotsmen
reap
what
they
disdain'd
to
sow
;
For
us
,
the
sun
shall
climb
the
eastern
hill
;
For
us
,
the
rain
shall
fall
,
the
dew
distil
;
When
to
our
wishes
NATURE
cannot
rise
,
ART
shall
be
task'd
to
grant
us
fresh
supplies
.
His
brawny
arm
shall
drudging
LABOUR
strain
,
And
for
our
pleasure
suffer
daily
pain
;
TRADE
shall
for
us
exert
her
utmost
pow'rs
,
Her's
,
all
the
toil
;
and
all
the
profit
,
our's
;
For
us
,
the
oak
shall
from
his
native
steep
Descend
,
and
fearless
travel
thro'
the
deep
,
The
sail
of
COMMERCE
for
our
use
unfurl'd
,
Shall
waft
the
treasures
of
each
distant
world
;
For
us
,
sublimer
heights
shall
science
reach
,
For
us
,
their
Statesmen
plot
,
their
Churchmen
preach
;
Their
noblest
limbs
of
counsel
we'll
disjoint
,
And
,
mocking
,
new
ones
of
our
own
appoint
;
Devouring
WAR
,
imprison'd
in
the
north
,
Shall
,
at
our
call
,
in
horrid
pomp
,
break
forth
,
And
,
when
,
his
chariot
wheels
with
thunder
hung
,
Fell
Discord
braying
with
her
brazen
tongue
,
Death
in
the
van
,
with
Anger
,
Hate
,
and
Fear
,
And
Desolation
stalking
in
the
rear
,
Revenge
,
by
Justice
guided
,
in
his
train
,
He
drives
impetuous
o'er
the
trembling
plain
,
Shall
,
at
our
bidding
,
quit
his
lawful
prey
,
And
to
meek
,
gentle
,
gen'rous
Peace
give
way
.
Think
not
,
my
sons
,
that
this
so
bless'd
estate
Stands
at
a
distance
on
the
roll
of
fate
;
Already
big
with
hopes
of
future
sway
,
E'en
from
this
cave
I
scent
my
destin'd
prey
.
Think
not
,
that
this
dominion
o'er
a
race
Whose
former
deeds
shall
time's
last
annals
grace
,
In
the
rough
face
of
peril
must
be
sought
,
And
with
the
lives
of
thousands
dearly
bought
;
No
—
fool'd
by
cunning
,
by
that
happy
art
Which
laughs
to
scorn
the
blund'ring
hero's
heart
,
Into
the
snare
shall
our
kind
neighbours
fall
With
open
eyes
,
and
fondly
give
us
all
.
When
ROME
,
to
prop
her
sinking
empire
,
bore
Their
choicest
levies
to
a
foreign
shore
,
What
if
we
seiz'd
,
like
a
destroying
flood
,
Their
widow'd
plains
,
and
fill'd
the
realm
with
blood
,
Gave
an
unbounded
loose
to
manly
rage
,
And
,
scorning
mercy
,
spar'd
nor
sex
nor
age
;
When
,
for
our
interest
too
mighty
grown
,
Monarchs
of
warlike
bent
possess'd
the
throne
,
What
if
we
strove
divisions
to
foment
,
And
spread
the
flames
of
civil
discontent
,
Assisted
those
who
'gainst
their
king
made
head
,
And
gave
the
traitors
refuge
when
they
fled
;
When
restless
GLORY
bad
her
sons
advance
,
And
pitch'd
her
standard
in
the
fields
of
France
,
What
if
disdaining
oaths
,
an
empty
sound
,
By
which
our
nation
never
shall
be
bound
,
Bravely
we
taught
unmuzzled
war
to
roam
Thro'
the
weak
land
,
and
brought
cheap
laurels
home
;
When
the
bold
traitors
league
for
the
defence
Of
Law
,
Religion
,
Liberty
,
and
Sense
,
When
they
against
their
lawful
Monarch
rose
,
And
dar'd
the
Lord's
Anointed
to
oppose
,
What
if
we
still
rever'd
the
banish'd
race
,
And
strove
the
Royal
Vagrants
to
replace
?
With
fierce
rebellions
shook
th'
unsettled
state
,
And
greatly
dar'd
,
tho'
cross'd
by
partial
fate
;
These
facts
,
which
might
,
where
Wisdom
held
the
sway
,
Awake
the
very
stones
to
bar
our
way
,
There
shall
be
nothing
,
nor
one
trace
remain
In
the
dull
region
of
an
English
brain
,
Bless'd
with
that
Faith
,
which
mountains
can
remove
,
First
they
shall
Dupes
,
next
Saints
,
last
Martyrs
prove
.
Already
is
this
game
of
fate
begun
Under
the
sanction
of
my
Darling
Son
,
That
Son
,
whose
nature
royal
as
his
name
,
Is
destin'd
to
redeem
our
race
from
shame
.
His
boundless
pow'r
,
beyond
example
great
,
Shall
make
the
rough
way
smooth
,
the
crooked
straight
,
Shall
for
our
ease
the
raging
floods
restrain
,
And
sink
the
mountain
level
to
the
plain
.
DISCORD
,
whom
in
a
cavern
under
ground
With
massy
fetters
our
late
Patriot
bound
,
Where
her
own
flesh
the
furious
Hag
might
tear
,
And
vent
her
curses
to
the
vacant
air
,
Where
,
that
she
never
might
be
heard
of
more
,
He
planted-LOYALTY
to
guard
the
door
,
For
better
purpose
shall
Our
Chief
release
,
Disguise
her
for
a
time
,
and
call
her
PEACE
.
Lur'd
by
that
name
,
fine
engine
of
deceit
,
Shall
the
weak
ENGLISH
help
themselves
to
cheat
;
To
win
our
love
,
with
honours
shall
they
grace
The
old
adherents
of
the
STUART
race
,
For
pointed
out
,
no
matter
by
what
name
,
TORIES
or
JACOBITES
are
still
the
same
;
To
sooth
our
rage
,
the
temporising
brood
Shall
break
the
ties
of
truth
and
gratitude
,
Against
their
Saviour
venom'd
falshoods
frame
,
And
brand
with
calumny
their
WILLIAM's
name
;
To
win
our
grace
,
(
rare
argument
of
wit
)
To
our
untainted
faith
shall
they
commit
,
(
Our
faith
which
,
in
extremest
perils
tried
,
Disdain'd
,
and
still
disdains
,
to
change
her
side
,
)
That
Sacred
Majesty
they
all
approve
,
Who
most
enjoys
,
and
best
deserves
their
Love
.