NOCTES AMBROSIANE.

I.

(MARCH 1825.)

ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ
ΗΔΕΑ ΚΩΤΙΛΛΟΝΤΑ ΚΑΘΗΜΕΝΟΝ ΟΙΝΟΠΟΤΑΖΕΙΝ.

[This is a distich by wise old Phocylides,

An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days;

PHOC. ap. Ath.

Meaning, "TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINE-BIBBING PEOPLE,

NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE;

BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE."

An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis—

And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.]

C. N. ap. Ambr.

Blue Parlour. Midnight. Watchman heard crying "One o'clock."
TICKLER. THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
The middle Term asleep.

NORTH.

North. The old gentleman is fairly dished. Pray, are you a great dreamer, James? Your poetry is so very imaginative that I should opine your sleep to be haunted by many visions, dismal and delightful.

To me

Shepherd. I never dream between the blankets. sleep has no separate world. It is as a transient mental annihilation. I snore, but dream not. What is the use of sleep at all, if you are to toss and tumble, sigh and groan, shudder and shriek, and agonise in the convulsions of night mayoralty? I lie all night like a stone, and in the morning

VOL. I.

A

2

THE SHEPHERD'S DAY-DREAMS.

up I go, like a dewy leaf before the zephyr's breath, glittering in the sunshine.

North. Whence are all your poetic visions, James, of Kilmeny, and Hynde, and the Chaldee Manuscript?

Shepherd. Genius, Genius, my dear sir. May not a man dream, when he is awake, better dreams than when sleep dulls and deadens both cerebrum and cerebellum? O, happy days that I have lain on the green hill-side, with my plaid around me, best mantle of inspiration, my faithful Hector sitting like a very Christian by my side, glowring far aff into the glens after the sheep, or aiblins' lifting up his ee to the gled hovering close aneath the marbled roof of clouds,-bonny St Mary's Loch lying like a smile below, and a softened sun, scarcely warmer than the moon hersel, adorning without dazzling the day, over the heavens and the earth,—a beuk o’ auld ballants, as yellow as the cowslips, in my hand or my bosom, and maybe, sir, my inkhorn dangling at a buttonhole, a bit stump o' pen, nae bigger than an auld wife's pipe, in my mouth; and a piece o' paper, torn out o' the hinder-end of a volume, crunkling on my knee;-on such a couch, Mr North, hath your Shepherd seen visions and dreamed dreams; but his een were never steeked;2 and I continued aye to see and to hear a' outward things, although scarcely conscious at the time o' their real nature, so bright, wavering, and unsurelike was the haill3 livin world, frae my lair on the knowe* beside the clear spring, to the distant weather-gleam. (The Shepherd drinks.) This is the best jug I have made yet, sir.

North. Have you been writing any poetry lately, James? The unparalleled success of Queen Hynde must have inspirited and inspired my dear Shepherd.

Shepherd. Success! She's no had muckle o' that, man. Me and Wordsworth are aboon the age we live in-it's no worthy o' us; but wait a whyleock—wait only for a thousand years, or thereabouts, Mr North, and you'll see who will have speeled to the tap o' the tree.

North. Nay, James, you are by far too popular at present to be entitled to posthumous fame. You are second only to Byron. But tell me, have you written anything since the Burning of Beregonium ?

1 Aiblins-perhaps.

4 Knowe-knoll.

2 Steeked-closed.
5 Whyleock-little while.

3 Haill-whole.
6 Speeled-climbed.

HYMN TO THE DEVIL.

3

Shepherd. Do you wish to hear an Ode to the Devil? North. Nothing more. Look fiendish, James, and suit the action to the word. You have not imitated Burns?

Shepherd. Me imitate Burns!1 Faith, no!—Just let me tak a caulker o' the Glenlivet before I begin spootin. Noo for't

(SHEPHERD puts himself in attitude, and spouts.)

HYMN TO THE DEVIL.

Speed thee, speed thee!
Liberty lead thee!

Many this night shall hearken and heed thee.
Far abroad,
Demigod !

What shall appal thee?

Javel, or Devil, or how shall we call thee?
Thine the night voices of joy and of weeping,
The whisper awake, and the vision when sleeping:
The bloated kings of the earth shall brood
On princedoms and provinces bought with blood,
Shall slubber, and snore, and to-morrow's breath
Shall order the muster and march of death:
The trumpets shall sound, and the gonfalons flee,
And thousands of souls step home to thee.
Speed thee, speed thee, &c.

The warrior shall dream of battle begun,
Of field-day and foray, and foeman undone ;
Of provinces sacked, and warrior store,
Of hurry and havoc, and hampers of ore;

Of captive maidens for joys abundant,

And ransom vast when these grow redundant.
Hurray! for the foray. Fiends ride forth a-souling,
For the dogs of havoc are yelping and yowling.
Speed thee, speed thee, &c.

Make the bedesman's dream
With pleasure to teem;
To-day and to-morrow

He has but one aim.

And 'tis still the same, and 'tis still the same.

But well thou know'st the sot's demerit,

His richness of flesh, and his poorness of spirit;

1 In this effusion the Shepherd has certainly not imitated Burns.