They shot him from far, and they shot him from near,
And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer:

Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thieves When they ransacked their dwellings, and drove off their beeves;

But craft undermined what force battered in vain,

And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.

Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold!
The Southron, like Dickon, is bought and is sold;
To his goods and his chattels, his house and his land,
Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand:

A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone,
The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.

The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life :
They reap without sowing, they win without strife:
The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce,
But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce;
And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix,
On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.

ST. PETER OF SCOTLAND.

"Si bene calculum ponas, ubique naufragium est."

PETRONIUS ARBITER.

ST. PETER of Scotland set sail with a crew

Of philosophers, picked from the Bluecap Review:
His boat was of paper, old rags were her freight,

And her bottom was sheathed with a spruce copper-plate.

Her mast was a quill, and to catch the fair gale

The broad gray goose feather was spread for a sale;

So he ploughed his blithe way through the surge and the

spray,

And the name of his boat was the Promise-to-Pay.

And swiftly and gaily she went on her track,
As if she could never be taken a-back,
As if in her progress there never could be
A chop of the wind or a swell of the sea.

She was but a fair-weather vessel, in sooth,

For winds that were gentle, and waves that were smooth;
She was built not for storm, she was armed not for strife,
But in her St. Peter risked fortune and life.

His fortune, 'tis true, was but bundles of rag,
That no pedlar, not Scotch, would have put in his bag;
The worth of his life none could know but the few
Who insured it on sailing from Sweet Edinbroo."

St. Peter seemed daft, and he laughed and he quaffed;
But an ill-boding wave struck his vessel right aft:
It stove in his quarters and swamped his frail boat,
Which sunk with an eddy and left him afloat.

He clung to his goose-quill and floated all night,
And he landed at daybreak in pitiful plight;

And he preached a discourse when he reached the good town, To prove that his vessel should not have gone down.

The nautical science he took for his guide

Allowed no such force as the wind or the tide :

None but blockheads could think such a science o'erthrown, By the breath of a gale which ought not to have blown.

LAMENT OF SCOTCH ECONOMISTS

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE ONE-POUND NOTES.

Do not halloo before you are out of the wood.

CASTLEREAGH, of blessed memory.

OH hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie!
The pride of paper's reign is o'er,
And fall'n the flower of credit's tree :
We ne'er shall see a flimsy more.

VOL. III.

16

Oh! sprung from great I-will-not-pay,
The chief that never feared a dun,
How hopeful was thy ne'er-come-day,
How comely thy symbolic ONE!

The country loons with wonder saw
The magic type perform its rounds,
Transforming many a man of straw
To men of many thousand pounds.
For northern lads blithe days were those;
They wanted neither beef nor ale,
Surprised their toes with shoes and hose,
And made Scotch broo' of English cail.

Oh! Johnny Groat, we little thought,
Tow'rds thee our noses e'er would point;
But flimsies burned, and cash returned,
Will put said noses out of joint.
Improvements vast will then be past:
The march of mind will backward lead;
For how can mind be left behind,

When we march back across the Tweed?

Scotch logic floats on one-pound notes:
When rags are cash our shirts are ore:
What else would go to scare the crow,

Becomes a myriad pounds and more.

A scarecrow's suit would furnish forth
A good Scotch bank's whole stock in trade:
The wig, for coinage nothing worth,

Might "surplus capital" be made.

Oh! happy land, by Scotchmen taught !
Thy fate was then indeed divine,
When every scarecrow's pole was thought
A true Real del Monte mine.

Oh mystic ONE, that turned out NONE,

When senseless panic pressed thee hard! Who thee could hold and call out "Gold !" Would he had feathered been and tarred.

Thy little fly-wheel kept in play

The mighty money-grinding mill; When thou art rashly torn away,

The whole machine will stand stock still.

The host of promisers to pay

That fill their jugs on credit's hill,
Will each roll down and crack his crown,
As certainly as Jack and Jill.

And we, God knows, may doff our hose
And sell our shoes for what they're worth,
And trudge again with naked toes

Back to our land of Nod, the north.

For, should we strain our lecturing throats,
We might to walls and doors discuss :
When John Bull sees through one-pound notes,
'Tis very clear he'll see through us.

That rare hotch-potch, the College Scotch,
Reared by our art in London town,
Will be at best a standing jest,

At least until it tumbles down.

Of those day-dreams, our free-trade schemes,
That laid in sippets goslings green,

The world will think less brain than drink

In skulls that hatched them must have been.

Then farewell, shirts, and breeks, and coats,
Cloth, linen, cambric, silk, and lawn!
Farewell! with you, dear one-pound notes,
Mac Banquo's occupation's gone.

The man who thrives with tens and fives
Must have some coin, and none have we!
Roast beef, adieu! come, barley broo' !
Oh hone-a-rie! Oh hone-a-rie !

CALEDONIAN WAR WHOOP.

By the Coat of our House, which is an ass rampant, I am ready to fight under this banner.

1.

SHADWELL'S Humourists.

CHORUS OF WRITERS TO THE SIGNET.

EH, laird! Eh, laird! an' ha' ye haird,
That we're to hae nae ae poond nots?
Ye weel may say the Hooses tway

Wad play the de'il wi' a' the Scots.
Ha' they nae fears when Scotland's tears
Flow fast as ony burnie, oh!

But they shall find we've a' one mind,
The mind of one attorney, oh!

II.

De'il take us a' if we can ca'

To mind the day wherein we got
The idle croons o' seely loons

In
ony medium but a not.
De'il take us as we hop' to be

Wi' spoils o' clients bonny, ho!

If e'er we look to touch a fee

When there's nae paper money, oh !

III.

Solo-SIR MALACHI MALAGROWTHER.

Quoth Hudibras-Friend Ralph, thou hast
(Hunt's blacking shines on Hyde park wall)
OUTRUN THE CONSTABLE at last,

For gold will still be lord of all.
The ups and downs of paper poun's
Have made the English weary, oh!
And 'tis their will old Scotland's mill
Shall e'en gae Tapsalteerie, oh!