Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind; Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, No sorrow we shall find: 'Tis then no matter how things go, Or who's our friend, or who's our foe. With a fa, &c.

To pass our tedious hours away,
We throw a merry main;
Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.
With a fa, &c.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.
With a fa, &c.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note,

As if it sighed with each man's care

For being so remote:

Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were played. With a fa, &c.

In justice, you can not refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness;

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.
With a fa, &c.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

JOHN SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAMSHIRE (1649-1720-21), was associated in his latter days with the wits and poets of the reign of Queen Anne, but he properly belongs to the previous age. He went with Prince Rupert against the Dutch, and was afterwards colonel of a regiment of foot. In order to learn the art of war under Marshal Turenne, he made a campaign in the French service. The literary taste of Sheffield was never neglected amidst the din of arms, and he made himself an accomplished scholar.

He was a member of the privy council of James II. but acquiesced in the Revolution, and was afterwards a member of the cabinet council of William and Mary, with a pension of £3000. Sheffield is said to have 'made love' to Queen Anne when they were both young, and her majesty heaped honours on the favourite immediately on her accession to the throne. He lived in great state in a magnificent house he had built in St James's Park, of which he has given a long description-dwelling with delight on its gardens, terrace, park, and canal, and the rows of goodly elms and limes through which he approached his mansion. This

stately residence was purchased by George III. and taken down by George IV. to make way for the present royal palace, which still bears the name of Buckingham. The noble poet continued actively engaged in public affairs till his death. Sheffield wrote several poems and copies of verses. Among the former is an Essay on Satire, which Dryden is reported, but erroneously, to have revised. His principal work, however, is his Essay on Poetry, which was published anonymously in 1682; the second edition, enlarged in 1691, received the praises of Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope. This poem was retouched by Pope, and in return some of the last lines of Buckingham were devoted to the praise of the young poet of Windsor Forest. The Essay on Poetry is written in the heroic couplet, and seems to have suggested Pope's Essay on Criticism. It is of the style of Denham and Roscommon, plain, perspicuous, and sensible, but contains little true poetry-less than any of Dryden's prose essays.

Extract from the Essay on Poetry?

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well;
No writing lifts exalted man so high
As sacred and soul-moving Poesy:
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finished, nothing shines so much.
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane
To grace the vulgar with that noble name.
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which, sometimes
Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting like the sun,
Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired,
Breaks out again, and is by all admired.
Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound
Which not the nicest ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts;
And all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole;
Without a genius, too, for that's the soul:
A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit,
Even something of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shewn,
Describing all men, but described by none.
First, then, of songs, which now so much abound,
Without his song no fop is to be found;
A most offensive weapon which he draws
On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.
Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

...

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shewn
In one small ring, and brings the value down:
So songs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet when can one be seen without a fault?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transposed, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall....
Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well writ has most successful proved,
And cures, because the remedy is loved.
'Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things oft said before.
Some vulgar errors only we'll remove,
That stain a beauty which we so much love.

Of chosen words some take not care enough,
And think they should be, as the subject, rough;
This poem must be more exactly made,

And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words conveyed.
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only business was to rail;
But human frailty, nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satire from a scold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down ;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown;
So, while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth.

By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The epic poets so divinely shew,

And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

To be the utmost stretch of human sense;

A work of such inestimable worth,

...

There are but two the world has yet brought forth-
Homer and Virgil; with what sacred awe

Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather as a two-legged beast,
So these gigantic souls, amazed, we find
As much above the rest of human-kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endless fame
And universal shouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A Hymn to my Redeemer.

By GEORGE SANDYS, the accomplished traveller, translator of Ovid, and author of Metrical Paraphrases of the Psalms, the Book of Job, &c. 1635. This hymn was hung by Sandys as an offering on the sepulchre of Christ.

Saviour of mankind-man-Emmanuel,

Who sinless died for sin, who vanquished hell,
The first-fruits of the grave; whose life did give
Light to our darkness; in whose death we live,
O strengthen Thou my faith! correct my will,
That mine may thine obey! Protect me still,
So that the latter death may not devour

My soul, sealed with thy seal !-so in the hour
When Thou, whose body sanctified this tomb,
Unjustly judged, a glorious judge shalt come
To judge the world with justice, by that sign
I may be known, and entertained for thine!

From Sandys' Version of the Nineteenth Psalm.

God's glory the vast heavens proclaim,
The firmament His mighty frame;
Day unto day, and night to night,

The wonders of His works recite.

To these nor speech nor words belong,
Yet understood without a tongue.
The globe of earth they compass round,
Through all the world disperse their sound.
There is the sun's pavilion set,
Who from his rosy cabinet,

Like a fresh bridegroom shews his face,
And as a giant runs his race.

The Old Man's Wish.

This song, by Dr WALTER POPE (died in 1714), was first pubFished in 1685. It was imitated in Latin by VINCENT BOURNE (1697-1747), usher in Westminster School, who was affectionately remembered by Cowper and other pupils.

If I live to grow old, as I find I go down,
Let this be my fate in a country town:

May I have a warm house, with a stone at my gate, And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.

May I govern my passions with an absolute sway, Grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,

Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance on which I may look,
With a spacious plain without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.
May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Plutarch, and one or two more
Of the best wits that lived in the ages before;
With a dish of roast-mutton, not ven'son nor teal,
And clean, though coarse linen at every meal.

May I govern, &c.

With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar;
With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.

With a courage undaunted, may I face my last day,
And when I am dead may the better sort say,
In the morning when sober, in the evening when
mellow,

'He's gone and han't left behind him his fellow;

For he governed his passions with an absolute sway,

And grew wiser and better as his strength wore

away,

Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.'

Colin's Complaint.-By NICHOLAS Rowe.
Despairing beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

'Alas, silly swain that I was !'

Thus sadly complaining he cried; "When first I beheld that fair face

'Twere better by far I had died.

She talked, and I blessed the dear tongue; When she smiled 'twas a pleasure too great:

I listened and cried when she sung, "Was nightingale ever so sweet?"

"How foolish was I to believe

She could dote on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine folk of the town.
To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant could prove,
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love.

"What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temple have crowned?
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around?
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain ;
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy false one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine.

'And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betrayed, Whatever I suffer, forbearForbear to accuse the false maid.

Though through the wide world I should range,

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

"If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found,

Let her come with the nymph of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.
The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew ;
And when she looks down on my grave,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.
"Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day; While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talked of or seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon His ghost shall glide over the green.'

The Blind Boy.-By COLLEY CIBBER.
O say what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy,
What are the blessings of the sight-
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;

I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;
But, sure, with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy; While thus I sing, I am a king, Although a poor blind boy.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all!

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.
But 'gainst my batteries if I find
Thou kick, or vex me sore,
As that thou set me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.
And in the empire of thine heart,
Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to vie with me;
Or committees if thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful, then,
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword;

I'll serve thee in such noble ways

Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,

And love thee more and more.

Lines written by Montrose after sentence of death was passed upon him.

Let them bestow on every airt1 a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake,

Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air:

Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,
I'm hopeful Thou 'It recover once my dust,
And confident Thou 'It raise me with the just!

ROBERT SEMPILL.

The Semples of Beltrees were a poetical family, and one piece by ROBERT SEMPILL (1595-1659) evinces a talent for humorous description. Allan Ramsay, and afterwards Burns, copied the style and form of verse in Sempill's poem, The Piper of Kilbarchan:

Kilbarchan now may say 'Alas!'

For she hath lost her game and grace,
Both Trixie and the Maiden Trace;
But what remead?

For no man can supply his place-
Hab Simson's dead!

Now who shall play, 'The Day it daws,'
Or 'Hunts up,' when the cock he craws?
Or who can for our kirk-town cause

Stand us in stead?

On bagpipes now naebody blaws

Sin' Habbie's dead.

Sempill wrote other pieces, which have not been preserved. He was a royalist, and fought on the side of Charles I.

WILLIAM CLELAND.

WILLIAM CLELAND (circa 1661-1689) wrote 2 Hudibrastic satire on the Jacobite army known as the Highland Host,' in 1678. He was author

1 Every point of the compass (Gaelic aird, a cardinal point).

also of a wild, fanciful piece, Hallo, my Fancy. Cleland commanded the Covenanting forces, and fell in the moment of victory at Dunkeld. The poems of this gallant young officer were not published till 1697. Sir Walter Scott, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, has stated that Colonel Cleland was father of a certain Major Cleland, the friend of Pope, whose name is signed to a letter prefixed to the Dunciad; but this is an error; the Covenanting officer was only twelve or thirteen years of age when Major Cleland was born.

The Highland Host.

But those who were their chief commanders,
As such who bore the pirnie1 standarts;
Who led the van and drove the rear,
Were right well mounted of their gear;
With brogues, and trews, and pirnie plaids,
And good blue bonnets on their heads,
Which on the one side had a flipe,2
Adorned with a tobacco pipe;
With dirk, and snap-work, and snuff-mill,
A bag which they with onions fill,
And, as their strict observers say,
A tass-horn filled with usquebae;
A slashed-cut coat beneath their plaids,
A targe of timber, nails, and hides;
With a long two-handed sword,
As good's the country can afford—
Had they not need of bulk and bones,
Who fight with all these arms at once?
It's marvellous how in such weather,
O'er hill and moss they came together;
How in such storms they came so far;
The reason is they 're smeared with tar,
Which doth defend them heel and neck,
Just as it doth their sheep protect.* . .
Nought like religion they retain,
Of moral honesty they 're clean;
In nothing they're accounted sharp,
Except in bagpipe and in harp.
For a misobliging word

She'll durk her neighbour o'er the board;
And then she 'll flee like fire from flint,
She'll scarcely ward the second dint;
If any ask her of her thrift,

Forsooth, her nainsel lives by theft.

Some of the interesting ballads and fragments in Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border belong to this period. One of these is Gilderoy (that is, the Red Lad), a Highland freebooter, who was executed in 1636. He was a noted cateran or robber, but a dashing one like Captain Macheath, with roses in his shoon, silken hose, and fine garters. There is one true touch of feeling in the ballad. Alluding to the scene of Gilderoy's death on the scaffold, the heroine who laments his fate, says:

I never loved to see the face
That gazed on Gilderoy.

Another ballad entitled Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament, is about the same date:

Balow,1 my babe, lie still and sleep;
It grieves me sair to hear thee weep:
If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad;

Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.

One of the finest of these poetical relics (for which, Professor Aytoun says, there is evidence to shew that it was composed before 1566) we print entire :

Waly, Waly

O waly, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly by yon burnside,

Where I and my love were wont to gae!

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bowed, and syne it brak,
Sae my true love did lightly me.

O waly, waly gin my love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when it's auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head,
Or wherefore should I kaim my hair;
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never lo'e me mair?

Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed,

The sheets shall ne'er be pressed 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 aff the tree?
O gentle death, when wilt thou come,
For of my life I am wearie?

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie;
'Tis 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 i' the black velvet,
And I myself in cramosie.

But had I wissed before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win,

I had locked my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinned it wi' a siller pin.

Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I myself were dead and gane,

For a maid again I'll never be.

We should perhaps include among the poetical productions of this time the translation of the Psalms which is still sung in the Scottish Presbyterian churches. A version was made in 1643 by a Puritanical versifier, FRANCIS ROUSE (15791659), which was revised and adopted as now in use. The fine old version of the Hundredth Psalm, however, was in use, words and music, so early as 1565.

DRAMATISTS.

JASPER MAYNE.

Two comedies, illustrative of city manners in the time of Charles I. were produced by JASPER MAYNE (1604-1672). The first of these, The City Madam (1639), is one of the best of our early comedies-humorous, but not indelicate; the second, entitled The Amorous War, is a tragicomedy, published in 1648. Mayne was a native of Devonshire, educated for the church, and afterwards archdeacon of Chichester, and chaplain_in ordinary to King Charles II. He was a humorist,

and has been compared even to Dean Swift, though little remains to justify the comparison. Besides his plays, he wrote occasional poems, and translated Lucian's Dialogues. The Puritans, of course, found no favour with this dramatic divine.

A Puritanical Waiting-maid.

AURELIA. BAneswright.

Aurelia. Oh, Mr Baneswright, are you come? My

woman

Was in her preaching fit; she only wanted
A table's end.

Baneswright. Why, what's the matter?
Aur. Never

Poor lady had such unbred holiness
About her person; I am never drest
Without a sermon; but am forced to prove
The lawfulness of curling-irons before
She'll crisp me in a morning. I must shew
Texts for the fashions of my gowns. She'll ask
Where jewels are commanded? Or what lady
I' the primitive times wore robes of pearl or rubies?
She will urge councils for her little ruff,
Called in Northamptonshire; and her whole service
Is a mere confutation of my clothes.

Bane. Why, madam, I assure you, time hath been, However she be otherwise, when she had

A good quick wit, and would have made to a lady A serviceable sinner.

Aur. She can't preserve

The gift for which I took her; but as though
She were inspired from Ipswich, she will make
The acts and monuments in sweetmeats; quinces,
Arraigned and burnt at a stake; all my banquets
Are persecutions; Diocletian's days

Are brought for entertainment; and we eat martyrs.
Bane. Madam, she is far gone.

Aur. Nay, sir, she is a Puritan at her needle too. Bane. Indeed!

Aur. She works religious petticoats; for flowers She'll make church histories. Her needle doth So sanctify my cushionets! Besides,

My smock-sleeves have such holy embroideries,
And are so learned, that I fear, in time,
All my apparel will be quoted by

Some pure instructor. Yesterday I went
To see a lady that has a parrot; my woman,
While I was in discourse, converted the fowl;
And now it can speak nought but Knox's works;
So there's a parrot lost.

DAVENANT AND DRYDEN.

The civil war was for a time fatal to the dramatic Muse. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elements of discord, and in the same month that the sword was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, suppressing public stageplays throughout the kingdom during these calamitous times.' An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for performing Beaumont and Fletcher's King and no King-an ominous title for a drama at that period. Another ordinance was issued in 1647, and a third in the following year, when the House of Commons appointed a provost-marshal,

* A practical joke is related of him. One of his servants waiting upon him with attention in his last illness, was told by his master

chest, found that his legacy was a red herring!