Part 6

How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink! And yet how few, how very few can think! The knack of writing is an easy trade; But to think well requires—at least a head. Once in an age, one genius may arise, With wit well cultur’d, and with learning wise: Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot! No tender scions springing at the root. Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell’d head, No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade: Nothing but weeds and moss, and shrubs are found: Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground? And yet you’d have me write? For what? for whom? To curl a favourite in a dressing room? To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short? Or save rappee for chamber-maids at court? Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame! No, but you’d have me write—to get a name. Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvy’d too; ’Tis more than Pope with all his wit can do; ’Tis more than you, with wit and beauty join’d, A pleasing form and a discerning mind. The world and I are no such cordial friends; I have my purpose, they their various ends. I say my prayers, and lead a sober life, Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife. What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent? If my friends know me honest, I’m content. Well, but the joy to see my works in print! Myself too pictur’d in a mezzo-tint! The preface done, the dedication fram’d, With lies enough to make a lord asham’d! Thus I step forth; an authoress in some sort: My patron’s name? ‘O choose some lord at court. One that has money which he does not use, One you may flatter much, that is, abuse. For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note, Regardless of the trimm’d or untrimm’d coat, Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.’ Well then, to cut this mighty matter short, I’ve neither friend, nor interest, at court. Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall, I hardly know a creature, great or small, Except one maid of honour, worth them all. I have no business there—Let those attend The courtly levee, or the courtly friend, Who more than fate allows them dare to spend. Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more, The pension’d beggar, or the titled poor. These are the thriving breed, the tiny great! Slaves! wretched slaves! the journeymen of state! Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace, Patriots who sell their country for a place! Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme? For these, like Bavius, creep, or Glencus, climb? Shall I go late to rest, and early rise, To be the very creature I despise? With face unmov’d, my poem in my hand, Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand? Perhaps my lady’s maid, if not too proud, Will stoop, you’ll say, to wink me from the crowd; Will entertain me till his lordship’s drest, With what my lady eats, and how she rests: How much she gave for such a birth-day gown, And how she trampt to every shop in town. Sick at the news, impatient for my lord, I’m forced to hear, nay smile, at every word. Tom raps at last,—‘his lordship begs to know Your name? your business?’—Sir, I’m not a foe; I come to charm his lordship’s listening ears With verses, soft as music of the spheres. ‘Verses!—alas! his lordship seldom reads: Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads; But my good lord, as all the world can tell, Reads not even tradesmen’s bills, and scorns to spell. But trust your lays with me—some things I’ve read, Was born a poet, tho’ no poet bred: And if I find they’ll bear my nicer view, I’ll recommend your poetry—and you.’ Shock’d at his civil impudence, I start, Pocket my poem, and in haste depart; Resolv’d no more to offer up my wit, Where footmen in the seat of critics sit. Is there a Lord whose great unspotted soul, Not places, pensions, ribbons can controul; Unlac’d, unpowder’d, almost unobserv’d, Eats not on silver while his train are starv’d; Who, tho’ to nobles or to kings ally’d, Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride; With merit humble, and with greatness free, Has bow’d to Freeman, and has din’d with me; Who, bred in foreign courts, and early known, Has yet to learn the cunning of his own; To titles born, yet heir to no estate, And harder still, too honest to be great? If such an one there be, well-bred, polite, To him I’ll dedicate, for him I’ll write. Peace to the rest—I can be no man’s slave; I ask for nothing, tho’ I nothing have. By fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe. Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate; And have not learnt to flatter, even the great. Few friends I ask, and those who love me well; What more remains, these artless lines shall tell. Of honest parents, not of great, I came; Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame, Frugal and plain, at no man’s cost they eat, Nor knew a baker’s or a butcher’s debt. O be their precepts ever in my eye! For one has learnt to live, and one to die. Long may her widow’d age by Heaven be lent Among my blessings! and I’m well content. I ask no more, but in some calm retreat, To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat. No noisy slaves attending round my room; My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb. No orphans cheated, and no widow’s curse, No household lord, for better or for worse. No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin, But just enough to keep me plain and clean. And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way, Charlotte should smile, or you approve my lay, Enough for me—I cannot put my trust In lords; smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust. Fortune her favours much too dear may hold: An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.

JANE ELLIOT

1727-1805

_70. A Lament for Flodden_

I’ve heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits eerie, lamenting her dearie, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile won the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

JENNY GRAHAME

18th century

_71. Wedlock_

Alas! my son, you little know, The sorrows which from wedlock flow: Farewell, sweet hours of mirth and ease, When you have gotten a wife to please. Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye little ken what’s to betide ye yet, The half o’ that will gane you yet If a wayward wife obtain you yet.

Your hopes are high, your wisdom small, Woe has not had you in its thrall; The black cow on your foot ne’er trod, Which makes you sing along the road.

When I, like you, was young and free, I valued not the proudest she; Like you my boast was bold and vain, That men alone were born to reign.

Great Hercules and Sampson too Were stronger far than I or you, Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the shears.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, Are proof ’gainst swords and cannon-balls; But nought is found, by sea or land, That can a wayward wife withstand.

ISOBEL PAGAN

1741-1821

_72. Ca’ the Yowes_

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them whare the heather grows, Ca’ them whare the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed doun the water side, There I met my shepherd lad, He rowed me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca’d me his dearie.

‘Will ye gang doun the water side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide, The moon it shines fu’ clearly.’

I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool; And a’ the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me.

‘Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, And ye sall be my dearie.’

‘If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said, I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad; And ye may row me in your plaid, And I sall be your dearie.’

‘While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie; Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e Ye aye shall be my dearie.’

ANNE HUNTER

1742-1821

_73. My Mother Bids me Bind my Hair_

My mother bids me bind my hair, With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my bodice blue.

‘For why’, she cries, ‘sit still and weep, While others dance and play?’ Alas! I scarce can go or creep While Lubin is away.

’Tis sad to think the days are gone When those we love were near; I sit upon this mossy stone And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away.

ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD

1743-1825

_74. To a Lady with Some Flowers_

Flowers to the Fair! to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet and gay, and delicate like you, Emblems of innocence and beauty, too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden’s pure and guiltless garden grew. To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign’d, The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind— The tougher yew repels invading foes, And the tall pine for future navies grows; But this soft family, to cares unknown, Were born for pleasure and delight alone. Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these; Your best, your sweetest empire is—to please.

_75. Life_

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me’s a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where’er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that then remains to me. O whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter’s base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee? Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; ’Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear:— Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!

FRANCES BROOKE

1724-1789

_76. Song_

Her mouth, which a smile, Devoid of all guile, Half opens to view, Is the bud of the rose In the morning that blows, Impearl’d with the dew.

More fragrant her breath Than the flow’r-scented heath At the dawning of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lily’s perfume, Or the blossoms of may.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE

1747-1794

_77. Song_

And ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller ha’e to spare, Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride, Nor think o’ Donald mair. Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun Wi’ a puir broken heart? Or what’s to me a siller crown, Gin frae my love I part?

The mind wha’s every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I’m forced to break my faith, I’ll lay me down and dee: For I ha’e pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald’s fate to share. And he has gi’en to me his heart, Wi a’ its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu’ took the gift; Could I but think to tak’ it back, It wad be waur than theft. For langest life can ne’er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I’m forced to break my troth I’ll lay me down and dee.

CHARLOTTE SMITH

1749-1806

_78. Sonnet Written at the Close of Spring_

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, And the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours flee away! Another May new birds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness no second spring?

LADY ANNE (LINDSAY) BARNARD

1750-1825

_79. Auld Robin Gray_

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a’ the warld to rest are gane, The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a crown he had naething else beside: To make the crown a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the crown and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa’; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea— And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin, I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e Said ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’

My heart it said nay; I look’d for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break They gied him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he, Till he said ‘I’m come hame to marry thee’.

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang away: I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I’ll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

HENRIETTA, LADY O’NEILL

1758-1793

_80. On Seeing Her Two Sons at Play_

Sweet age of blest delusion! blooming boys, Ah! revel long in childhood’s thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow sportively the rolling hoop; To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark with raptur’d gaze the sailing kite; Or eagerly pursuing Pleasure’s call, Can find it centr’d in the bounding ball! Alas! the day _will_ come, when sports like these Must lose their magic, and their power to please; Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth; Even now, a mother’s fond prophetic fear Sees the dark train of human ills appear; Views various fortune for each lovely child, Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe; Perchance predestin’d every pang to prove, That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love; For ah! how few have found existence sweet, Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit!

JOANNA BAILLIE

1762-1851

_81. A Mother to Her Waking Infant_

Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye, Thy curled nose and lip awry, Uphoisted arms and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boasts thy face; Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell; And yet I love thee well.

When wakes the sudden bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek; When rattled keys thy woes beguile, And through thine eyelids gleams the smile; Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress, Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless; Nor with kind sympathy be smitten Though all are sad but thee and kitten; Yet, puny varlet that thou art, Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm; Thy silken locks that scantly peep, With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep, Around thy neck in harmless grace So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right good will.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing: E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense when thou art by; And yet, I think, whoe’er they be, They love thee not like me.

Perhaps when time shall add a few Short months to thee, thou’lt love me too; And after that, through life’s long way. Become my sure and cheering stay: Wilt care for me and be my hold, When I am weak and old.

Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale, And pity me when I am frail— —But see! the sweepy swimming fly, Upon the window takes thine eye. Go to thy little senseless play; Thou dost not heed my lay.

_82. The Kitten_

Wanton drole, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic’s closing day, When drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting till his supper cool; And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy sleight; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil’d, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife’s spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadows throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye; Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide; Till, from thy centre starting far, Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high: Tho’ ne’er a madam of them all Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.

Doth power in varied measures dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap, and jerk, and high curvet, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted be the modern muse Expression technical to use,) These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill, But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains, To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play, Applauses too _thy_ feats repay: For then, beneath some urchin’s hand, With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy purr; As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose; While softly from thy whisker’d cheek, Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.

But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly Thro’ airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with alter’d air, To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe. The widow’d dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a letter’d page, Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravell’d skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways; What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind.