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The Prophecy Of Famine. A Scots Pastoral Inscribed To John Wilkes, Esq.

by Charles Churchill

Nos patriam fugimus.

-VIRGIL.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly

From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,

The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,

Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;

His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire

Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;

Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,

And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse.

So to the sacred mount he takes his way,

Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay,

His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,

In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,

The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.

Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,

In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more--

Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies--

Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.

From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale

Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale.

The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,

Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.

Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,

And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:

The streams, with music freighted, as they pass

Present the fair Lardella with a glass;

And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,

Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,

These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed;

Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,

Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;

Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,

And founds his merit on our servile fears;

Then we discard the workings of the heart,

And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;

Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;

Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:

Then Ostentation marches to our aid,

And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade;

Beneath their care behold the work refine,

Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;

Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear

The robes of ancients with a modern air;

Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,

And passes current with the stamp of taste.

Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,

And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;

Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam,

Easy and free as if they were at home;

Nymphs, na'ads, nere'ds, dryads, satyrs, fauns,

Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;

Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome,

More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;

Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn,

And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;

Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise,

And new creations strike our wondering eyes.

For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,

Grave without thought, and without feeling gay,

Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,

Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe;

Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,

And mars one couplet in their happy lays,

As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,

And ask the meaning of her coming there:

For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[1] bring,

Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing;

In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze,

And Gisbal[2] kindly rock them to repose;

My Lord ----, to letters as to faith most true--

At once their patron and example too--

Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,

Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[3]

Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,

Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),

From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat

Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat.

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,

No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;

Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,

Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;

Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,

By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads;

Who often, but without success, have pray'd

For apt Alliteration's artful aid;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,

Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:

Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit

For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,

Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place

Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess--to thy law

Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!

Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules

Imposed at first, and since observed by fools;

Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,

And bring the sober matron forth to view,

With all that artificial tawdry glare

Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear!

Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste

Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste;

Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,

Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please;

By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued,

However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,

To northern climes my happier course I steer,

Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year;

Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,

She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan.

To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow,

What mighty blessings doth not England owe!

What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense,

Doth each revolving day import from thence?

To us she gives, disinterested friend!

Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[4] without end.

When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,

Come not her generous sons and take a share?

And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,

Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state,

Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,

Such refuge as the holy martyr[5] found?

Nor less our debt in science, though denied

By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.

Thence came the Ramsays,[6] names of worthy note,

Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;

Thence, Home,[7] disbanded from the sons of prayer

For loving plays, though no dull Dean[8] was there;

Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[9] call,

That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal;

Thence Malloch,[10] friend alike to Church and State,

Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate

Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign,

All daring infidels should seek in vain;

Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,

To this wise town by simple patrons brought,

In simple manner utter simple lays,

And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.

Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream,

Where all the little Loves and Graces dream;

Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,

And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;

Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;

There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,

As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood--

Wash off my native stains, correct that blood

Which mutinies at call of English pride,

And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

From solemn thought which overhangs the brow

Of patriot care, when things are--God knows how;

From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,

In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;

From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power,

And easy Humour wings the laughing hour;

From those soft better moments, when desire

Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire;

When mutual ardours of the melting fair

More than repay us for whole years of care,

At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,

And see, once seen before, that ancient seat,

That ancient seat, where majesty display'd

Her ensigns, long before the world was made!

Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,

Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind:

Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave,

Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,

Thy honest spirit into practice brings,

Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.

Let rude licentious Englishmen comply

With tumult's voice, and curse--they know not why;

Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains

To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,

And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,

Things as they are, and not as they appear.

With thee good humour tempers lively wit;

Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit;

And nature gave thee, open to distress,

A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot

Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot,

Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,

By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,

Or starves at home, or practises, through fear

Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here.

When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,

The fierce North Briton[11] foaming at their head,

Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,

And, injured by one alien, rail at all;

On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,

To mark the weakness of that Holy Land,

With needless truths their libels to adorn,

And hang a nation up to public scorn,

Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,

And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;

True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.

Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,

Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

If, by low supple arts successful grown,

They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own;

If, mean in want, and insolent in power,

They only fawn'd more surely to devour,

Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm,

And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?

But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,

And follow where true honour points the way,

If they revere the hand by which they're fed,

And bless the donors for their daily bread,

Or, by vast debts of higher import bound,

Are always humble, always grateful found:

If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,

Become discreetly all things to all men,

That all men may become all things to them,

Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.

Into our places, states, and beds they creep;

They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.

Once--be the hour accursed, accursed the place!--

I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.

Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid,

By specious arts unwarily betray'd,

Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,

Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:

But shall I meanly error's path pursue,

When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?

Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?

To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.

Backward I tread the paths I trod before,

And calm reflection hates what passion swore.

Converted, (blessed are the souls which know

Those pleasures which from true conversion flow,

Whether to reason, who now rules my breast,

Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[12]

Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim

To raise new trophies to the Scottish name;

To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?)

E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore;

To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes,

In fullest tide roll down to latest times.

Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine,

An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine,

Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain

Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane?

Should he from toils of government retire,

And for a moment fan the poet's fire;

Should he, of sciences the moral friend,

Each curious, each important search suspend,

Leave unassisted Hill[13] of herbs to tell,

And all the wonders of a cockleshell;

Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,

Would not the Home[14] step forth and gain the prize?

Or if this wreath of honour might adorn

The humble brows of one in England born,

Presumptuous still thy daring must appear;

Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here.

Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone,

Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate[15] known,

Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son,

In every party found, and yet of none.

This airy substance, this substantial shade,

Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd.

From themes too lofty for a bard so mean,

Discretion beckons to an humbler scene;

The restless fever of ambition laid,

Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade.

Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride,

Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied.

And if plain nature pours a simple strain,

Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain,--

Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all,

Whom English infidels Macpherson call,--

Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave,

And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs

From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings--

Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bred

On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;

By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks

To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;

Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,

The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd,

Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;

Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes;

Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies,

Dress and her vain refinements they despise.

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown,

With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down,

With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,

E'en from the rising to the setting day;

Sawney as long without remorse could bawl

Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal:

Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,

The Highland lass forgot her want of food;

And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,

Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen;

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:

The plague of locusts they secure defy,

For in three hours a grasshopper must die:

No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,

But the cameleon, who can feast on air.

No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;

No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:

No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,

Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:

Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,

Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan:

No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose,[16]

Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows;

By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades

Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.

One, and but one poor solitary cave,

Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;

That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)

Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.

There snares without, entangling briars spread,

And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head,

Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose;

Thistles now held more precious than the rose.

All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan,

Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man,

Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite,

Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight;

Creatures which, when admitted in the ark,

Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,

Found place within: marking her noisome road

With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;

There webs were spread of more than common size,

And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies;

In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;

Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall:

The cave around with hissing serpents rung;

On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;

And Famine, by her children always known,

As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.

Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,

And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast--

A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,

Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,

The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep,

Of which those shepherds every day take keep,

Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude,

On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.

Jockey.

Sith to this cave by tempest we're confined,

And within ken our flocks, under the wind,

Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,

Are laid emong yon thistles, dry and warm,

What, Sawney, if by shepherds' art we try

To mock the rigour of this cruel sky?

What if we tune some merry roundelay?

Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play.

Sawney.

Ah! Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis,

To think of songs at such a time as this:

Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,

Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,

Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,

And we forget to live from hand to mouth,

Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart

The songs of gladness with an aching heart.

Jockey.

Still have I known thee for a silly swain;

Of things past help, what boots it to complain?

Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;

No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:

Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured,

So Donald right areads, must be endured.

Sawney.

Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now.

How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? How,

When with a foreign loon she stole away,

Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay?

Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I

Applied those proverbs which you now apply?

Jockey.

Oh, she was bonny! All the Highlands round

Was there a rival to my Maggy found?

More precious (though that precious is to all)

Than the rare medicine which we Brimstone call,

Or that choice plant,[17] so grateful to the nose,

Which, in I know not what far country, grows,

Was Maggy unto me: dear do I rue

A lass so fair should ever prove untrue.

Sawney.

Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear,

Through all the land did Jamie find a peer?

Cursed be that year[18] by every honest Scot,

And in the shepherd's calendar forgot,

That fatal year when Jamie, hapless swain!

In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain:

Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled,

Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead.

Jockey.

Full sorely may we all lament that day,

For all were losers in the deadly fray.

Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains,

Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains;

Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride;

Two in the field, and three on gibbets died.

Ah, silly swains! to follow war's alarms;

Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms?

Sawney.

Mention it not--there saw I strangers clad

In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid;

Saw the Ferrara, too, our nation's pride,

Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.

There fell our choicest youth, and from that day

Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay;

Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still survive,

To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five!

Thus plain'd the boys, when, from her throne of turf,

With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf,

Vile humours which, in life's corrupted well

Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,

Pale Famine rear'd the head; her eager eyes,

Where hunger e'en to madness seem'd to rise,

Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,

Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start:

Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,

Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell;

With double rows of useless teeth supplied,

Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,

Which, when for want of food her entrails pined,

She oped, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind:

All shrivell'd was her skin; and here and there,

Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:

Such filthy sight to hide from human view,

O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw.

Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains!

And from a parent hear what Jove ordains.

Pent in this barren corner of the isle,

Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;

Like nature's bastards, reaping for our share

What was rejected by the lawful heir;

Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,

Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;

Long free, because the race of Roman braves

Thought it not worth their while to make us slaves;

Then into bondage by that nation brought,

Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;

Whom still with unslaked hate we view, and still,

The power of mischief lost, retain the will;

Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,

A mass till the last moment left behind,

Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,

Whether to stamp with life or throw away;

Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,

But never enter'd in Creation's book;

Branded as traitors who, for love of gold,

Would sell their God, as once their king they sold,--

Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,

These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.

But times of happier note are now at hand,

And the full promise of a better land:

There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,

For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,

A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains,

Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns:

With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,

Who worship Interest and our track pursue;

There shall we, though the wretched people grieve,

Ravage at large, nor ask the owners' leave.

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase;

For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece;

Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own,

And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown:

For our advantage shall their harvests grow,

And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow:

For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;

For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil.

When to our wishes Nature cannot rise,

Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies;

His brawny arm shall drudging Labour strain,

And for our pleasure suffer daily pain:

Trade shall for us exert her utmost powers,

Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours:

For us, the oak shall from his native steep

Descend, and fearless travel through the deep:

The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd,

Shall waft the treasures of each distant world:

For us, sublimer heights shall science reach;

For us, their statesman plot, their churchmen preach:

Their noblest limbs of council we'll disjoint,

And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint.

Devouring War, imprison'd in the North,

Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,

And when, his chariot-wheels with thunder hung,

Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue,

Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,

And Desolation stalking in the rear,

Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train,

He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,

Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,

And to meek, gentle, generous Peace give way.

Think not, my sons, that this so bless'd estate

Stands at a distance on the roll of fate;

Already big with hopes of future sway,

E'en from this cave I scent my destined prey.

Think not that this dominion o'er a race,

Whose former deeds shall time's last annals grace,

In the rough face of peril must be sought,

And with the lives of thousands dearly bought:

No--fool'd by cunning, by that happy art

Which laughs to scorn the blundering hero's heart,

Into the snare shall our kind neighbours fall

With open eyes, and fondly give us all.

When Rome, to prop her sinking empire, bore

Their choicest levies to a foreign shore,

What if we seized, like a destroying flood,

Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood;

Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage,

And, scorning mercy, spared nor sex, nor age?

When, for our interest too mighty grown,

Monarchs of warlike bent possessed the throne,

What if we strove divisions to foment,

And spread the flames of civil discontent,

Assisted those who 'gainst their king made head,

And gave the traitors refuge when they fled?

When restless Glory bade her sons advance,

And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France,

What if, disdaining oaths,--an empty sound,

By which our nation never shall be bound,--

Bravely we taught unmuzzled War to roam,

Through the weak land, and brought cheap laurels home?

When the bold traitors, leagued for the defence

Of law, religion, liberty, and sense,

When they against their lawful monarch rose,

And dared the Lord's anointed to oppose,

What if we still revered the banish'd race,

And strove the royal vagrants to replace;

With fierce rebellions shook the unsettled state,

And greatly dared, though cross'd by partial fate?

These facts, which might, where wisdom held the sway,

Awake the very stones to bar our way,

There shall be nothing, nor one trace remain

In the dull region of an English brain;

Bless'd with that faith which mountains can remove,

First they shall dupes, next saints, last martyrs, prove.

Already is this game of Fate begun

Under the sanction of my darling son;[19]

That son, of nature royal as his name,

Is destined to redeem our race from shame:

His boundless power, beyond example great,

Shall make the rough way smooth, the crooked straight;

Shall for our ease the raging floods restrain,

And sink the mountain level to the plain.

Discord, whom in a cavern under ground

With massy fetters their late patriot bound;

Where her own flesh the furious hag might tear,

And vent her curses to the vacant air;

Where, that she never might be heard of more,

He planted Loyalty to guard the door,

For better purpose shall our chief release,

Disguise her for a time, and call her Peace.[20]

Lured by that name--fine engine of deceit!--

Shall the weak English help themselves to cheat;

To gain our love, with honours shall they grace

The old adherents of the Stuart race,

Who, pointed out no matter by what name,

Tories or Jacobites, are still the same;

To soothe our rage the temporising brood

Shall break the ties of truth and gratitude,

Against their saviour venom'd falsehoods frame,

And brand with calumny their William's name:

To win our grace, (rare argument of wit!)

To our untainted faith shall they commit

(Our faith, which, in extremest perils tried,

Disdain'd, and still disdains, to change her side)

That sacred Majesty they all approve,

Who most enjoys, and best deserves their love.