Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks1 at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart.
At ev'n, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his will:
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,
A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane;
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pot 's be ready to take aff;
Clean hag-abag I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him with the best we can afford:
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny. A dish of married love right soon grows
cauld,
And dozins down to nane, as fowk grow auld. Peggy. But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er
The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tye,
Than aught in love the like of us can spy.
See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,
Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and
bride;
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd,
And in their mixture now are fully blest:
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast;
That in return defends it frae the west.
1 Mates.- Huckabuck.-3 Linen caps or coifs. Dwindles. VOL. IV.
Each hour a different face he wears,
Now in a fury, now in tears,
Now laughing, now in sorrow;
Now he'll command, and now obey,
Bellows for liberty to-day,
At noon the Tories had him tight,
With staunchest Whigs he supp'd at night,
Each party try'd to 'ave won him ;
But he himself did so divide,
Shuffled and cut from side to side,
That now both parties shun him.
See yon old, dull, important Lord,
Who at the long'd-for money-board
Sits first, but does not lead:
His younger brethren all things make;
So that the Treasury's like a snake,
And the tail moves the head.
Why did you cross God's good intent?
He made you for a President;
Back to that station
Nor longer act this farce of power,
We know you miss'd the thing before,
And have not got it now.
See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair,
Britain's two thunderbolts of war,
But oh! their strength and spirits flown, They, like their conq'ring swords, are grown Rusty with laying by.
Dear Bat, I'm glad you've got a place,
And since things thus have chang'd their face, You'll give opposing o'er:
'Tis comfortable to be in,
And think what a damn'd while you've been, Like Peter, at the door.
See who comes next-I kiss thy hands,
But not in flattery, Samuel Sandys;
For since you are in power,
That gives you knowledge, judgment, parts,
The courtier's wiles, the statesman's arts,
Of which you'd none before.
When great impending dangers shook
Its state, old Rome dictators took
Judiciously from plough:
So we, (but at a pinch thou knowest)
To make the highest of the lowest,
Th' Exchequer gave to you.
When in your hands the seals you found,
Did they not make your brains go round?
Did they not turn your head?
I fancy (but you hate a joke)
You felt as Nell did when she woke
In Lady Loverule's bed.
Sic as stand single, (a state sae lik'd by you,)
Beneath ilk storm frae every airt' man bow.
Jenny. I've done.-I yield, dear lassie, I man yield,
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae
Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner!-Jenny, that's no fair,
That ye'll no let the wie thing take the air:
Haste, let him out; we'll tent as well 's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's, or poor Roger's man.
Jenny. Anither time's as good; for see the sun
Is right far up, and we're not yet begun
To freath the graith: if canker'd Madge, our aunt,
Come up
the burn, she'll gie us a wicked rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell you a' my mind;
For this seems true-nae lass can be unkind.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.
SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS was the son of John Hanbury, Esq. a South Sea Director. He sat in several parliaments, was, in 1744, installed a knight of the bath, and was afterwards minister at the courts of Berlin and Petersburgh.
TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE.
SEE, a new progeny descends
From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends:
Oh Muse! attend my call!
To one of these direct thy flight,
Or, to be sure that we are right,
Direct it to them all.
O Clio! these are golden times;
I shall get money for my rhymes;
And thou no more go tatter'd :
Make haste then, lead the way, begin,
For here are people just come in,
Who never yet were flatter'd.
But first to Carteret fain you'd sing ;
Indeed he's nearest to the King,
Yet careless how you use him;
Give him, I beg, no labour'd lays;
He will but promise if you praise,
And laugh if you abuse him.
Then (but there's a vast space betwixt)
The new-made Earl of Bath comes next,
Stiff in his popular pride:
His step, his gait, describe the man ;
They paint him better than I can,
Waddling from side to side.
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