THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN,

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit-Night.

WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings;
While quacks of state must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connexion, One sacred Right of Woman is protection.The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate, Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, Unless your shelter ward the' impending storm.

Our second Right-but needless here is caution, To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it-'tis decorum.There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways; Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well bred men-and you are all well-bred-Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,

That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration

Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal love.-
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares-
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,

With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ça ira! the Majesty of Women!

ADDRESS,

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle, on her Benefit-Night, December 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

STILL anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
*Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted.

Ma'am, let me tell you,' quoth my man of rhymes, 'I know your bent-these are no laughing times: Can you but Miss, I own I have my fears, 'Dissolve in pause-and sentimental tears— With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance; 'Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand,

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Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?'.

I could no more-askance the creature eyeing, D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz-nay more, the world shall know it;

And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!

Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief:
I also think-so may I be a bride!

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch!
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur'st in desperate thought-a rope-thy neck--Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, Pecrest to meditate the healing leap:

Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ;

And as we're merry, may we still be wise.

SONGS.

THE LEA RIG.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star,
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field,
Return sae dowf and weary 0;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,

Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.