Though Scotia cannot boast her myrtle vales,
Yet waving birch, and sweetly scented thorn,
Breathe gentle fragrance to the twilight gales,
And waft their odours on the breeze of morn:
Around, rich Commerce spreads her whitening sails,
And golden harvests her gay fields adorn;
Her rivers roll, soft glide her crystal rills,
And o'er her flowery glens, high tower her heath-clad hills.
Her woodlands wave with buds and bushes green,
Where many a warbler plumes his wanton wing,
When dewy morning sheds her smile serene,
Their song of love makes rocks and vallies ring.
In sun-bright summer, breathes the scented bean,
And cowslips deck the mossy banks of spring,
Her lowing herds in every vale abound,
And flocks, with fleeces white, bleat on the hills around.
But Scotia, still of nobler wealth possess'd,
Can boast her hardy independent swains;
And fairer, lovelier sweets, are hers confess'd,
Than waving woods, green fields, and flowery plains.
The modest virgin's blush, and swelling breast,
Where love in secret sits, to forge his chains,
'Midst every charm, and winning nameless grace,
That beauty deigns to shed on woman's angel face!
This brings me to the point from whence I started,
From which, I own, I've made sad aberration,
But every reader, if he's patriot-hearted,
I'm sure will smile, and pardon the digression.
Besides, when from my subject I departed,
It was not easy to resist temptation,
For dearly as I value woman's charms,
'Tis Caledonia's fair that all my bosom warm.
Fair country-women, is it not a shame,
For Byron's muse your beauties to neglect, To dwell with rapture on a stranger's name, And hang his pearls about a Tartar's neck However fair? I think he's much to blame;
Your virtues claimed a little more respect; And they should echo over land and sea,
If I like him could sing-if he could love like me.
Methinks, I see your cheek with anger flush,
And scorn the praise his Lordship could bestow;
The Laureate of Don Juan !-do not blush-
No Scotian fair e'er read the book I know!-
Though you have heard the public talk-but hush!
I hail and laud that bashful modest glow;
Cheer up, loved fair! nor fear oblivion's lake,
Yet better sink forgot, than float in Julia's wake.
Shame to the bard, who prostitutes his skill
To flout the sex, in vile lampoons satiric;
For me, I've every want, except the will
To sing your praise, in sonnet, ode, and lyric!
Dull as I am, more softly glides my quill,
Whene'er employed, to write your panegyric:
Even now, inspired, so warm my bosom glows,
I feel my pen unfit for writing sober prose!
But though I long to shine in epic glory,
At first, I must not soar too near the sun;
For trust me, I should be exceeding sorry
To fall, my flight so short, and just begun.
Well, let me try a short and simple story;
Perchance the muse may make it smoothly run;
Yet I have fears-this stanza is so bad,
It is not poetry, but measured prose run mad!
My scene's in Forfar, fam'd the country round,
For leather brogues, and philosophic lore;
For Osnaburgs, peat-reek, and law profound;
A lake, more famous far in days of yore;
Its muddy waters many a witch had drowned;
The muse might tell of twenty wonders more;
Such as its mosses, marl, and modern steeple,
That ornaments the kirk as piety the people.
But let them pass-I must my theme pursue;
Yet gentle readers, ere we further go,
My tale is old, although the version's new ;
You must look back, some sixty years, or so;
But still, perhaps, it may be strange to you,
Although your face does disappointment shew;
In fond anticipation, you expected
To bear of Radicals and lordly self-elected!
But borough politics have long been stale,
Beyond the boundaries of the corporation;
They'll do for deacons, guzzling home-brew'd ale,
Or magistrates, for evening recreation :
One party finds them like a thrice-told tale;
The other hates to hear their botheration!
Between them, if you please, we'll leave the strife;
Far better hear my tale-'tis of domestic life.
Tom Hood was young-a blacksmith to his trade,
His smithy stood just midway down the Spout ;*
The noise his hammers in the morning made,
Roused young and old from rest, all round about;
For Thomas was a thrifty thriving blade;
Whoever called, the blacksmith ne'er was out:
And though the lasses bloom'd, like roses, round him,
Nor Love, with subtle dart, nor Beauty's charms could wound him.
Tom had a tongue that never tir'd of talking,
His eloquence in native fervour glowed;
His stature tall, he seem'd a May-pole stalking;
A Hercules-earth trembled as he trod;
But still, he was not quite the thing for walking;
For on the street his gait was somewhat odd;
The cause was one, would neither cure nor smother,
One limb, though not a lath, was shorter than its brother.
Kate Gow was fair, a gaudy flaunting flower,
Just in the noon of youth and beauty's pride;
And saw delighted, at the twilight hour,
The Beaux, by dozens, crowding at her side,
Who flatter'd, fawn'd, and own'd her beauty's power,
And made her time on rosy pinions glide,
Then left the fair one, fancied conquests dreaming;
Now musing on the past-now future projects scheming.
The name of a street in Forfar.
For Kate was not the lily of the vale,
That bends its head beneath the dews of morn;
Neither was she the modest primrose pale,
That meekly blooms beneath the sheltering thorn:
She was a garden flower, that fear'd the gale,
And long'd some gentle bosom to adorn ;
She could not stoop would ne'er degrade her charms,
To hide her virgin blushes in a rustic's arms.
For she a lady's maid some years had been,
And knew the fashions of a drawing-room:
Of modish manners, much had learned and seen,
And many an art for heightening beauty's bloom;
Knew how to dress, and where to place each pin,
Amidst the labours of the silken loom;
What colour best became her beauteous face,
And all that could improve each native virgin grace.
And nature had on Kate (benignly kind)
Bestowed a face beyond most others fair;
If features were an index to the mind,
Of wit and spirit she had ample share;
Her slender neck and sparkling eye combined
To give the maid a most enchanting air;
Her smile so gentle, seemed to say, Come, sip
Young Love's celestial nectar from my ruby lip!"
Had niggard Fortune been but as propitious,
The maid might then had husbands, pick and chuse ;
She had gallants, who thought it most delicious,
When she would smile, their evenings to amuse;
But they were such as deemed it injudicious
To run their necks into the marriage noose:
True, she had been to Hymen's fane invited,
But it was still by those her pride or prudence slighted.
Two hungry lawyers, lacking food and fees,
With faces sallow, as a parchment skin,
Were both nonsuited in their amorous pleas;
Next came a splay-foot weaver, lank and thin ;
A son of Crispin sought the fair to please,
A shoe-brush bristling on his greasy chin;
A London tailor hoped her mind to measure;
The trio was dismissed-such was the lady's pleasure.
Hope, that had once a burning meteor blazed,
Now dwindled to a dimly twinkling star,
Which fainter grew as Catherine fondly gazed,
And clouds would sometimes all her vision mar:
And when her languid eye the maiden raised,
She saw it glimmering in the welkin far,
Its distance greater each revolving night,
And sick was she at heart to view its waning light.
Kate to religion paid the reverence due;
Tom Hood was seated near her every Sunday ;
Her face, set fairly in the blacksmith's view,
Made dreadful havock in his heart, on Monday!
In vain he tried his passion to subdue,—
Love lent him courage, and the lad went one dayWhere think you? To the barber to be trimmed,
His black and bushy beard with culm and smoke begrimmed.
Removed his weekly crop of bristling hair,
And in his Sunday clothing neatly dress'd,
He sat till twilight curtained o'er the air,
Love, like his bellows, heaving in his breast;
Then limping, hastened to the beautous fair,
And in her ear his ardent love express'd:
She meant to smile; but happening to look down,
Glanced on his crooked foot, and changed it to a frown.
Kate feigned resentment, which she did not feel;
But prudently resolved his suit to parry;
And calmly answered thus the man of steel,
"No Sir-I think-I'm sure-I'll never marry;
But even if I've a match in Fortune's wheel,
I'm not in haste-and rather chuse to tarry
Than wed with you-a blacksmith-lame beside!
The world would think me rash and fain to be a bride!"
Tom Hood had mother-wit, and common sense,
And felt it not his interest nor good breeding
To let a lady's language give offence,
Though wounded pride was in his bosom bleeding;
But prudence whispered, "Send your anger hence,
And shew your wit, since you're a man of reading,"
For Tooke's Pantheon taught the lad mythology,
And memory brought to mind a passing fair apology.
He smiled, and said, "Dear Kate! I'm sure you know
The tale of Venus, Queen of Love and Beauty;
Her husband, Vulcan, ne'er was deemed a beau;
Like me-a blacksmith, cripple, grim, and sooty!
Now you are Venus, Queen of Love below,
And I, your Vulcan, pledge my love and duty; And since a kindred goddess sets example,
You cannot, charming Kate, on such a pattern trample!"
Tom's rhet❜ric was so flattering to her pride,
That though she tried, she could not look unkind;
He went and came; she faintly still denied,
Then craved for time, till she made up her mind-
At last, as ladies do, she blushed and sighed,
With silent meekness, to her fate resigned:
He got a legal charter to her charms,
And blooming Venus lay in Vulcan's brawny arms!
Tradition tells us, that their honey-moon
Was sweet and fragrant as the blooming heather; They seem'd a couple, in an air-balloon,
That lightly soared above the world together; Love shed around them all his summer noon,
His sun-bright skies, and warm delightful weather; How long it lasted, we can but conjecture;
Folks cannot always sup on blushes, smiles, and nectar.
When conquering love his youthful victim captures,
His tickling shafts just titillate the frame,
The subtile poison kindles into raptures,
And fancy deems they will for ever flame;
But wedlock's history has its different chapters,
And one would tire to find them all the same;
The sun resplendent we more highly prize,
When thunder-clouds, and storms have darkened o'er the skies.
The wisdom by our great-grandfathers earned,
Tom's mother taught, and he had ne'er forgot;
For they were laws which half an eye discerned;
Such as ""Tis industry that boils the pot ;"
"Bad lessons grow to habits when they're learned;"
"A penny saved is just a penny got."
These maxims had too much of Tom's regard,
They formed the constant rule by which his life was squared.
At early morn, (his Kate in slumbers drowned,)
Up Tom would rise-his daily toil begin;
The bellows heave with deep and hollow sound,
And strike the anvil with such thundering din
As waked the fair one from her sleep profound,
Whene'er he deemed it time to rise and spin;
And would perhaps some pleasing dream destroy,
Some visionary bliss, which she could ne'er enjoy.
The happiest minds will sometimes languor feel,
The brightest eye be dimmed in slumbers deep;
While Tom was hammering at the stubborn steel,
With Kate the leaden hours would slowly creep;
The ceaseless humming of her drowsy wheel
Would almost lull the lovely fair asleep,
For having led a talking, lightsome life,
The change was great indeed,-a dull domestic wife!
To cheat the lingering hours, that seemed so heavy,
Kate sought for comfort in a cup of tea;
With half a score of gossips at her levee,
When o'er their Congo, Hyson, or Bohea,
Such tittle-tattle would inspire the bevy
That all was laughter, frolic, mirth, and glee,
And sometimes, when the dames were wondrous frisky,
They parted o'er a glass of good Glenlivet whisky.
Were I inclined my subject to prolong,
The muse could sing of much that makes us merry; The virtues of that sedative souchong,
And cheering influence of the Mocha berry,
With frothy chocolate cke out the song,
And cocoa too-but I in kindness spare ye;
Although, perhaps, the lay might still delight ye,
Were I to add a verse in praise of aqua vita.
I'm well aware, that courtly Roman Flaccus
Could smack his lips, and sing the joys of wine;
The Greek, Anacreon, worshipped jolly Bacchus,
And round his brows the ivy loved to twine;
And we have bards, who boast, and boldly crack, as
Good whisky were a beverage most divine:
For me, I deem it man-destroying liquor-
Why did the dram-glass e'er supplant the brown-ale bicker?
So thought Tom Hood; and reader, so think I ;
But then, the blacksmith thought the same of tea;
The clattering cups still made his bosom sigh;
And there with him I flatly disagree;
It cheers the brain, lights up the drowsy eye,
I'm sure the ladies will accord with me!
Come muse, proceed-we never can be wrong,
If maids, and wives, and widows, all
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