Satires
I .
Or shall we weep, or grow into the spleen,
Or shall we laugh at the fantastic scene,
To see a dull mechanic, in a fit,
Throw down his plane, and strive to be a wit?
Thus wrote De Foe, a tedious length of years,
And bravely lost his conscience and his ears,
To see a priest eke out the great design,
And tug with Latin points the halting line.
Who would not laugh, if two such men there were?
Such there have been — I don't say such there are.
II .
" Last week I made a visit to Portmoak, the parish where I was born, and being accidentally at the funeral of an aged rustic, I was invited to partake of the usual entertainment before the interment. We were conducted into a large barn, and placed almost in a square,
When lo! a mortal, bulky, grave, and dull,
The mighty master of the sevenfold skull,
Arose like Ajax. In the midst he stands —
A well filled bicker loads his trembling hands.
To one he comes, assumes a visage new —
" Come, ask a blessing, John? — 'tis put on you. "
" Bid Mungo say, " says John, with half a face,
Famed for his length of beard and length of grace.
Thus have I seen, beneath a hollow rock,
A shepherd hunt his dogs among his flock —
" Run, collie, Battie, Venture. " Not one hears,
Then rising, runs himself, and running swears.
In short, sir, as I have not time to poetize, the grace is said, the drink goes round, the tobacco pipes are lighted, and, from a cloud of smoke, a hoary-headed rustic addressed the company thus: — " Weel, John ( i.e. , the deceased), noo when he 's gone, was a good, sensible man, stout, and healthy, and hale; and had the best hand for casting peats of onybody in this kintra side. Aweel, sirs, we maun a' dee — Here 's to ye. " I was struck with the speech of this honest man, especially with his heroic application of the glass, in dispelling the gloomy thoughts of death.
Or shall we weep, or grow into the spleen,
Or shall we laugh at the fantastic scene,
To see a dull mechanic, in a fit,
Throw down his plane, and strive to be a wit?
Thus wrote De Foe, a tedious length of years,
And bravely lost his conscience and his ears,
To see a priest eke out the great design,
And tug with Latin points the halting line.
Who would not laugh, if two such men there were?
Such there have been — I don't say such there are.
II .
" Last week I made a visit to Portmoak, the parish where I was born, and being accidentally at the funeral of an aged rustic, I was invited to partake of the usual entertainment before the interment. We were conducted into a large barn, and placed almost in a square,
When lo! a mortal, bulky, grave, and dull,
The mighty master of the sevenfold skull,
Arose like Ajax. In the midst he stands —
A well filled bicker loads his trembling hands.
To one he comes, assumes a visage new —
" Come, ask a blessing, John? — 'tis put on you. "
" Bid Mungo say, " says John, with half a face,
Famed for his length of beard and length of grace.
Thus have I seen, beneath a hollow rock,
A shepherd hunt his dogs among his flock —
" Run, collie, Battie, Venture. " Not one hears,
Then rising, runs himself, and running swears.
In short, sir, as I have not time to poetize, the grace is said, the drink goes round, the tobacco pipes are lighted, and, from a cloud of smoke, a hoary-headed rustic addressed the company thus: — " Weel, John ( i.e. , the deceased), noo when he 's gone, was a good, sensible man, stout, and healthy, and hale; and had the best hand for casting peats of onybody in this kintra side. Aweel, sirs, we maun a' dee — Here 's to ye. " I was struck with the speech of this honest man, especially with his heroic application of the glass, in dispelling the gloomy thoughts of death.
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