Chapter 3

Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake, I'll bait my _Scot_ so, yet not cheat your Eyes; A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise. No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation Fosters no Venom since that _Scots'_ Plantation; Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain, Since they came in England has Wolves again. Nature her self does _Scotch_-men Beasts confess, Making their Country such a Wilderness; A Land that brings in Question and Suspence God's Omnipresence but that _Charles_ came thence, But that _Montrose_ and _Crawford's_ Royal Band Aton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land. Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots, There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots, As in a Picture where the Squinting Paint Shews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint; He that Saw Hell in's Melancholy Dream, And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme, Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright, Had he view'd Scotland had turn'd Proselyte. A Land where one may pray with curst Intent; Oh, may they never suffer Banishment! Had _Cain_ been _Scot_, God would have chant'd his Doom, Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home. Like _Jews_ they spread, and as Infection fly, As if the Devil had Ubiquity. Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defie This or that Place, Rags of Geography. They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all; _Scotland's_ a Nation Epidemical. And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode, How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad; To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug, Or which of the _Dutch_ States a double Jug Resembles most in Belly or in Beard; The Card by which the Mariners are Steer'd. No! The Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat; Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat. Nature with _Scots_ as Tooth-drawers has dealt, Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt. Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame The Stubborn _Scot_: A Prince that would reclaim Rebels by yielding does like him. or worse, Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse. Was it for this you left your leaner Soil, Thus to lard _Israel_ with _Egypt's_ Spoil? Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts! How a _Scotch_ Stomach and no Meat converts! They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took Religion for their Seamstress and their Cook. Unmask them well; their Honours and Estate, As well as Conscience, are Sophisticate. Shrive but their Titles, and their Money poise; A Laird and Twenty Pence,[27] pronounc'd with Noise, When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go, And a good sober Two-pence, and well so. Hence then,'you Proud Imposters, get you gone, You _Picts_ in Gentry and Devotion, You Scandal to the Stock of Verse, a Race Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace. Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use. The _Indian_ that Heaven did forswear Because he heard some _Spaniards_ were there. Had he but known what _Scots_ in Hell had been, He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between. My Muse has done. A voider for the Nonce; I wrong the Devil should I pick the Bones. That Dish is his, for when the _Scots_ decease, Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles. A _Scot_, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose, Drops into _Stix_, and turns a _Soland_ Goose. [28]

[Footnote 27: Ten pence Scots was a penny English.]

[Footnote 28: Compare with this the first of the two political squibs published in the Aungervyle Reprints Series, 2.]

THE MARSEILLAISE.

[Footnote: Written and composed by Roger de Lisle. This translation has been attributed to Lord Auckland.]

Ye sons of France, awake to glory; Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise! Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears, and hear their cries! Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding? To arms, to arms, ye brave, Th'avenging sword unsheath; March on, march on, all hearts resolv'd On victory or death.

Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling Which treach'rous kings, confederate, raise; The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, And, lo! our fields and cities blaze; And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force, with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands embruing? To arms, ye brave, etc.

With luxury and pride surrounded, The vile insatiate despots dare, Their thirst of power and gold unbounded, To mete and vend the light and air. Like beasts of burden would they load us, Like gods, would bid their slaves adore; But man is man, and who is more? Then shall they longer lash and goad us? To arms, ye brave, etc.

O Liberty! can man resign thee, Once having felt thy gen'rous flame? Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee, Or whips thy noble spirit tame? Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. To arms, ye brave, etc.

A DIRGE.

Bow the head, thou lily fair, Bow the head in mournful guise; Sickly turn thy shining white, Bend thy stalk, and never rise.

Shed thy leaves, thou lovely rose, Shed thy leaves, so sweet and gay; Spread them wide on the cold earth, Quickly let them fade away.

Fragrant woodbine, all untwine, All untwine from yonder bower; Drag thy branches on the ground, Stain with dust each tender flower,

For, woe is me! the gentle knot That did in willing durance bind My happy soul to hers for life By cruel death is now untwined.

Her head, with dim, half-closed eyes, Is bowed upon her breast of snow; And cold and faded are those cheeks That wont with cheerful red to glow.

Mute, mute, is that harmonious voice That wont to breathe the sounds of love, And lifeless are those beauteous limbs That with such ease and grace did move.

And I, of all my bliss bereft. Lonely and sad must ever moan, Dead to each joy the world can give, Alive to memory alone.

FINIS.