Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king, In who obtain defence or who defend, 49 But fortune's gifts if each alike possessed, And all were equal, must not all con test?. If then to all men happiness was meant, God in externals could not place content. Fortune her gifts may variously dis pose, And these be happy called, unhappy those; But Heaven's just balance equal will ap pear, While those are placed in hope, and these in fear; Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, By mountains piled on mountains, to the skies? Heaven still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence. ALLAN RAMSAY. [1685-1758.] SONG. FAREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I have mony a day been: To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, In him who is or him who finds a friend; | And not for the dangers attending on Heaven breathes through every member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul. weir: Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more! Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, No tempest can equal the storm in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained, But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained: And beauty and love's the reward of the brave; And I maun deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And losing thy favor I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, And if I should chance to come glorious hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. JOHN GAY. [1688-1732.] THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY. LEST men suspect your tale untrue, The traveller, leaping o'er those bounds, They take the strongest praise on trust. So very like a painter drew, So just, the life itself was there. come, His pallet ready o'er his thumb. Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece, 66 Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all their native fire; The features fraught with sense and wit, You'll grant are very hard to hit; Besides, my nose is somewhat long; "Oh! pardon me," the artist cried, "In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like." My lord examined it anew; A lady came; with borrowed grace JOHN BYROM. JOHN BYROM. [1691-1763.] CARELESS CONTENT. I AM Content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content. With more of thanks and less of thought, Physic and food in sour and sweet: With good and gentle-humored hearts, For chance or change of peace or pain, I never dodge nor up nor down; I suit not where I shall not speed, I make no bustling, but abide; -JAMES THOMSON. Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, I shun the rancors and the routs; With whom I feast I do not fawn, I cook no kind of a complaint: Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave; But fame shall find me no man's fool, Fond of a true and trusty tie, 51 I talk thereon just as I think; If names or notions make a noise, And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains? I love my neighbor as myself, Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs; Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, That man does right to mar his rest, I am content, I do not care. Let me be deft, and debonair, JAMES THOMSON. [1700-1748.] FROM THE "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.” IN lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a friend more fell is no where found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground: And there a season atween June and May, Half pranked with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, nor caréd even for play. streamlets played, And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh; But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest And hurled everywhere their waters Was far, far off expelled from this deli sheen; |