For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries.
WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon❜on,
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae mickle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need na toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece,
To gather matter for a serious piece;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.-
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce:
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after mony a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,
As able and as cruel as the devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal.page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And though your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land,
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins' when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best;
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution2
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar3 Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
An' warsle Time an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,5
"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?"
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honor to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore' before you strike,-
An' gratefu' still I hope ye 'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks:
God help us! we 're but poor-ye 'se get but thanks.
Spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, on New-Year-Day evening.
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste—the more 's the pity:
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,
I come to wish you all a good new-year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story.
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
"You're one year older this important day :".
If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink,
He bade me on you press this one word-"think!"
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and
spirit,
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
1 Perhaps.-2 Security.- Make.-4 To struggle.-5Inquire.—6 Fellows.* To chide.
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way!
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.
Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you 'll mind th' important-now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers, bliss to give and to receive.
For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavors, With grateful pride we own your many favors; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.
Spoken by Mr. Woods, on his Benefit Night, Monday, April 16, 1787.
WHEN by a generous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame;
When here your favor is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song:
But here an ancient nation, famed afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war-
Hail, Caledonia! name forever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honor'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art-
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream,
Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley1 rouses all the god in man.
When wek-form'd taste, and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace
Can only charm us in the second place,)
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you 're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet,
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.
O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honor'd land,
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire;
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;
Still self-dependent in her native shore,
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.
[The following verses were written when our Poet was in his eighteenth or nineteenth year. It is an exclamation by a great character on meeting with a child of misery.]
ALL devil as I am, a damnéd wretch,
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs,
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
1 The Man of Feeling, written by Mr. Mackenzie.
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity:
Ye poor despised, abandon'd vagabonds,
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
-O, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you.
REMORSE.-A FRAGMENT.
[These lines were found in a note-book of the Poet's, written in early life.]
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mint with anguish,
Beyond comparison, the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say-"It was no deed of mine;"
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added--" Blame thy foolish self,"
Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us,
Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
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