So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows;
When luckily came by a third-
To him the question they referred,
And begged he 'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
"Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother!
The creature 's neither one or t' other.
I caught the animal last night,
And viewed it o'er by candlelight:
I marked it well-'t was black as jet-
You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet,
And can produce it." "Pray, sir, do:
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn, that when you 've seen
The reptile, you 'll pronounce him green."
"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him."
He said: then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'t was white.
Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise—
"My children," the chameleon cries,
(Then first the creature found a tongue), "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you: Nor wonder, if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own.”
Maly, Waly, but Love be Bonny.
O WALY, waly up the bank,
And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I lean'd my back unto an aik,
And thought it was a trusty tree, But first it bow'd, and syne it brak', Sae my true love did lightly me.
O waly, waly but love be bonny,
A little time while it is new,
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld
And fades away like morning dew.
Oh! wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he 'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me, Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love 's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am weary.
'T is not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blowing snaw's inclemency:
'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kiss'd
That love had been so ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,
And pinn'd it with a silver pin.
And oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysel' were dead and gane,
Wi' the green grass growing over me!
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valor long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancor fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
O baneful cause, O fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
แ 'Mourn, hapless Caledonia mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"
IN good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those that dare resist
Or touch the Lord's anointed.
And this is law that I'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,
That whatsoever King shall reign,
"Still I'll be Vicar of Bray, sir.
When royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion,
The penal laws I hooted down,
And read the declaration;
The church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution;
And I had been a Jesuit
But for the revolution.
When William was our king declared, To ease the nation's grievance; With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance;
Old principles I did revoke,
Set conscience at a distance;
Passive obedience was a joke,
A jest was non-resistance.
When royal Anne became our queen,
The church of England's glory,
Another face of things was seen,
And I became a Tory;
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