What though we befriendit young Charlie?
To tell it I dinna think shame;
Poor lad! he came to us but barely,
Au' reckoned our mountains his hame:
"Tis true that our reason forbade us,
But tenderness carried the day;
Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.-
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';
For George will encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.
An' O I wad eagerly press him
The keys of the East to retain;
For should he gi'e up the possession,
We'll soon hae to force them again;
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it war my finishin' blow,
He ay may depend on Macdonald,
Wi's Highlandmen all in a row.-
Knees an' elbows an' a’,
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald Macdonald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'.
If Bonapart land at Fort William,
Auld Europe nae langer shall grane;
I laugh, whan I think how we'll gall him
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis an' Gairy,
We'll rattle him aff frae our shore;
Or lull him asleep in a cairney,
An' sing him-Lochaber no more!
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan',
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'.
The Gordon is gude in a hurry;
An' Campbell is steel to the bane;
An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane.
The Stuarts are sturdy an' wannle,
An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay;
An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald
Sal ne'er be the last i' the fray.-
A Prussian goose play'd fast and loose,
In hope to share the plunder;
At length the cock gave him a shock,
That brought him fairly under.
With Pope and Turk he made such work
As threw them on their knees, sir;
And now the cross and crescent vie
Which most this cock shall please, sir.
A bull-dog staunch once seiz'd his haunch,
And tore his pinions shorter;
"Hold, hold," he cried, "I'll keep the land,"
"And you shall keep the water."
"I'm chanticleer, your friend, whene'er
"You stand in need of favour:"
Then stalk'd away, as who should say,
"Now mind your good behaviour!"
He thought John Bull so gross a fool,
That he'd approve the notion;
And then, whene'er his wings had grown,
He'd plunge him in the ocean.
The bull-dog bold let go his hold,
He was not bloody-minded,
Then bask'd at length his hairy strength,
And in the sun reclin'd it.
This to his slaves, less fools than knaves,
The bantam did disclose, sir;
O ho, quoth he, dog though he be,
We'll strut before his nose, sir;
And then he crow'd so very loud,
He broke the bull-dog's slumbers;
Who struts be mark'd, and fiercely bark'd,
At him and all his numbers.
Yet still this cock affects to mock
At teeth and claws, ('tis true, sir)
Although they tore his wing before,
And made him cry parbleu! sir.
By Pope, seems to be meant, an animal that has two horns like a lamb, and a voice like a dragon. By Turk, the author probably intended a turkey cock.
“ Be ours," he screams, “ the sea, the Thames,"
Then chuckles at the phantom:For bull-dog isle shall ne'er be spoil
To dunghill breed, or bantam.
Now heav'n vouchsafe the nations peace,
Give each its proper level;
And guard meanwhile our vative isle
From Pope, and Turk,--and Devil!
Almighty vengeance stretch its iron hand;
Its impious agent ev'ry realm enthral,
And with wide wasting carnage cover all.
The human fiend, each day, each hour he lives,
Still to the world some baleful evil gives.
Oh, when he dies, what shouts shall shake the sphere!
New suns shall shine and double moons appear;
Death thro' the world one holiday shall make,
And hell get drunk with sulphur for his sake!
His throne a pile of human sculls sustains,
And bones that fell on those unhappy plains,
Where pale Toulon lay prest beneath her dead,
Where Lodi fought and fell Marengo bled.
Professing ev'ry faith, he mocks his God,
And virtue trembles underneath bis nod.
The nations, crouching round, his pomp adorn;
Britannia sits apart, and smiles in scorn;
Calm and unharm’d amidst his inpious ire,
While trembling millions from the strife retire.
So round some cliff when now the tempest roars,
And the weak Limuet downward turns her 'vars,
The royal Eagle, from his craggy throne,
Mounts the loud storm majestic and alone,
And steers his plumes athwart the dark profound,
While roaring thunders replicate around!
But now, rous'd slowly from her opiate bed,
Lethargic Europe lifts the heavy head;
Feels round her heart the creeping torpor close,
And starts with horror from her dire repose.
Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the knce,
And thank that awful Pow'r who keeps us free;
Own Him our strength, on Him repose our all,
Sedate in triumph, and resign'd to fall.
A POETICAL TRANSLATION OF A LETTER OF A CERTAIN GREAT PERSONAGE TO THE KING OF FRUSSIA.
From Dr. Thornton's Temple of Flora.
To Frederick the Great, king of Prussia,
HILE conquest seats you on the throne of fame,
And martial deeds immortalize your name,
On burnish'd arms while glory brightly beams,
And fields victorious fill the monarch's dreams;
Trembling I view whence all that glory springs
Which crowns the awful brows of hero-kings;
Shock'd I behold the source whence dart those rays
Which shine on victors, and round conqu’rors blaze;
And, fondly anxious praises to bestow,
Reluctant swell the stream of general woe;
For e'en those laurels which your brows entwine,
Your triumphs crown, and bid your conquests shine,
Meant as immortal trophies to adorn,
Were from my country's bleeding bowels torn.
While in what's truly brave, and greatly bold,
You outstrip beroes dignify'd of old;
My native Mecklenburgh, a prey to arms,
In desolation finds her ruin'd charms:
No more her plains their plenteous verdure yield,
No longer Ceres decks the golden field;
* Favour'd by heaven, let Britons bend the knee.]—I think I may say (but meekly let me say it, and with awful reverence), that Providence watches over this empire with an eye of peculiar regard. England seems to be solemnly selected and delegated to interpose a barrier between partial subversion and universal anarchy: to punish the punishers of nations; to heal the wounds of agonizing Europe, and to sit like a wakeful nurse, watching at her side, and administering to her lips the medicine of salvation. We stand on a noble, but a dreadful elevation; responsible in ourselves for the future happiness of the human race. We have a spirit, a constitution, and a religion: unrivalled, unparalleled, unprecedented. From these sources I draw my politics, and these tell me, we shall triumph. The red right hand of Providence is every where visible. Even at this moment it is performing the promised work of Papal Extirpation. Persevere then, Britons, in the mighty task before you. To recede from it were ruin. Be firm, and you triumph--fear, and you fall.
+ Then princess of Mecklenburg, now Queen of England, imploring relief from the oppressions of the military then quartered on the Mecklenburg territory.
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