(Sir Archibald, whofe favorite name
Shall ftand for ages on record,
By Scottish bards of highest fame,
Wife Hawthornden and Stirling's lord *.)
But time with iron teeth, I ween,
Has canker'd all its branches round;
No fruit or bloffom to be feen,
Its head reclining towards the ground.
This aged, fickly, fapless thorn,
Which must, alas I no longer stand,
Behold the cruel Dean in fcorn
Cuts down with facrilegious hand.
Dame Nature, when she saw the blow,
Aftonifh'd, gave a dreadful shriek,
And mother Tellus trembled fo,
She fcarce recover'd in a week.
The Sylvan powers, with fear perplex'd,
In prudence and compaffion, fent
(For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire event.
The magpye, lighting on the ftock,
Stood chattering with inceffant din ;
And with her beak gave many a knock
To rouze and warn the nymph within.
* Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.
The owl forefaw, in penfive mood,
The ruin of her ancient feat;
And fled in hafte, with all her brood,
To feek a more fecure retreat.
Laft trolled forth the gentle fwine,
To ease her itch against the stump,
And difmally was heard to whine,
All as the ferubb'd her meazly rump.
The nymph who dwells in every tree,
(If all be true that poets chant)
Condemn'd by Fate's fupreme decree,
Muft die with her expiring plant.
Thus, when the gentle Spina found
The thorn committed to her care
Receiv'd its laft and deadly wound,
She fled, and vanish'd into air.
But from the root a difmal groan
Firft iffuing ftruck the murderer's ears ;
And, in a fhrill revengeful tone,
This prophecy he trembling hears:
"Thou chief contriver of my fall,
"Relentlefs Dean, to mifchief born;
"My kindred oft' thine hide fhall gall,
"Thy gown and caffock oft' be torn.
"And thy confederate dame, who brags
"That the condemn'd me to the fire,
* Shall rend her petticoats to rags,
"And wound her legs with every brier.
"Nor thou, lord Arthur *, fhalt escape; "To thee I often call'd in vain,
Against that affaffin in crape;
"Yet thou could'ft tamely fee me flain : "Nor, when I felt the dreadful blow, "Orchid the Dean, or pinch'd thy fpoufe ; "Since you could fee me treated fo "(An old retainer to your house): "May that fell Dean, by whofe command "Was form'd this Machiavilian plot, "Not leave a thistle on thy land;
"Then who will own thee for a Scot ?
"Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
"Through all thy empire I forefee,
To tear thy hedges, join in leagues,
"Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.
"And thou, the wretch ordain'd by fate,
“Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
"With hatchet blunter than thy pate,
"When thou, suspended high in air,
"Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree
"(For thou shalt steal thy landlord's mare), "Then, bloody caitif! think on me."
LAMENTATION AND COMPLAINT
URE never did man fee
A wretch like poor
Nancy,
So teaz'd day and night
By a Dean and a Knight.
To punish my fins,
Sir Arthur begins,
And gives me a wipe
With Skinny and Snipe†:
His malice is plain,
Hallooing the Dean.
The Dean never ftops,
When he opens his chops;
I'm quite over-run
With rebus and pun.
Before he came here
To fpunge for good cheer,
I fate with delight,
From morning till night,
With two bony thumbs
Could rub my old
*Lady Achefon.
+ See p. 55.
Or fcratching my nose,
And jogging my toes;
But at prefent, forfooth,
I must not rub a tooth.
When my elbows he fees
Held up by my knees,
My arms, like two props,
Supporting my chops,
And just as I handle 'em
Moving all like a pendu-
lum;
He trips up my props,
And down my chin drops,
From my head to my heels,
Like a clock without wheels;
I fink in the spleen,
An useless machine.
If he had his will,
I should never fit ftill:
He comes with his whims,
I muft move my limbs;
I cannot be sweet
Without ufing my feet;
To lengthen my breath,
He tires me to death.
By the worst of all Squires,
Through bogs and through
briers,
He takes me to pieces From fhoulder to flank I'm lean and am lank; My nofe, long and thin, Grows down to my chin ;
Where a cow would be My chin will not stay,
I'm in fpite of my heart led;
And, fay what I will,
Haul'd up every hill;
Till, daggled and tatter'd,
My fpirits quite shatter'd,
I return home at night,
And faft, out of spite :
For I'd rather be dead,
Than it e'er should be faid,
I was better for him
In ftomach or limb.
But now to my diet;
No eating in quiet,
He's ftill finding fault,
Too four or too falt:
The wing of a chick
I hardly can pick;
But trash without measure
I swallow with pleasure.
Next for his diverfion,
He rails at my perfon:
But meets it half way:
My fingers, prolix,
Are ten crooked sticks:
He fwears my el-bows
Are two iron crows,
Or fharp-pointed rocks,
And wear out my fmocks:
To 'fcape them, Sir Arthur
Is forc'd to lie farther,
Or his fides they would gore
Like the tufk of a boar.
Now, changing the scene,
But ftill to the Dean :
He loves to be bitter at
A lady illiterate;
If he fees her but once,
He'll fwear fhe's a dunce;
Can tell by her looks
A hater of books;
Through each line of her
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