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XVIII.

But, fwain forfworn, who'er thou art,
This hallowed ground forbear!

Remember COLIN's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

AN

XXXXXXX

IMITATION

OF THE

PROPHECY OF NEREUS.

A

From HORACE, Book III. Ode XXV.

Dicam infigne, recens, adhuc

Indictum ore alio. Non fecus in jugis

Exfomnis fuper Evias,

Hebrum profpiciens, & nive candidam

Thracen, ac pede barbaro

Luftratam Rhodopen. HOR.

By the Same.

S Mar his round one morning took,

(Whom fome call earl, and fome call duke)

And his new brethren of the blade,

Shiv'ring with fear and froft, furvey'd,

On

On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy
An aged wizard fix foot high,

With bristled hair, and vifage blighted,
Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and fecond-fighted.
The grizly fage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back fo round,
Then roll'd his eye-balls to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of fnow,
And into these tremendous speeches
Brake forth the prophet without breeches.
Into what ills betray'd by thee,
This ancient kingdom do I fee!
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn!
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!
Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads fhall amble home;
I fee them drefs'd in bonnets blue,
(The spoils of thy rebellious crew)
I fee the target caft away,

And chequer'd plad become their prey,
The chequer'd plad to make a gown
For many a lafs in London town.

In vain the hungry mountaineers
Come forth in all their warlike geers,
The shield, the piftol, durk, and dagger,
In which they daily wont to swagger;
And oft have fally'd out to pillage
The hen-roofts of fome peaceful village,

Or,

Or, while their neighbours were asleep,
Have carry'd off a low-land sheep.

What boots thy high-born hoft of beggars,
Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,
With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruffians,
And Forster's troops of raggamuffins ?

In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflam'd with bagpipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart fo true, and voice fo rusty
(A loyal foul) thy troops affright,
While hoarfely he demands the fight?
Do'st thou not gen'rous Ilay dread,
The braveft hand, the wifeft head?
Undaunted do'st thou hear th' alarms
Of hoary Athol fheath'd in arms ?

Douglas, who draws his lineage down
From thanes and peers of high renown,
Fiery and young, and uncontrol'd,

With knights and fquires, and barons bold, (His noble houfhold-band) advances,

And on his milk-white courfer

prances.

Thee Forfar to the combat dares,

Grown fwarthy in Iberian wars :

And Monroe kindled into rage
Sow'rly defics thee to engage ;

He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er fo many,

And horfe to boot-if thou hadst any.

But

But fee Argyle with watchful eyes,
Lodg'd in his deep intrenchments lies!
Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey;
While like a herd of tim'rous deer
Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Led by their doughty gen'ral's skill,
From frith to frith, from hill to hill.
Is thus thy haughty promise pay'd
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter
For dukedom, gen'ralfhip, and garter ?
Three moons thy Jemmy shall command,
With highland fceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth

Then down shall fall the king of Perth. 'Tis fo decreed for GEORGE fhall reign,

:

And traitors be forfworn in vain.

Heav'n fhall for ever on him fmile,
And blefs him ftill with an Argyle.
While thou, purfu'd by vengeful foes,
Condemn'd to barren rocks and fnows,
And hinder'd paffing Inverlocky,
Shalt burn thy clan, and curfe poor Jocky.

VOL. I.

C

то

ΤΟ

Sir GODFREY KNELLER, at his COUNTRY SEAT.

By the Same.

O Whitton's fhades, and Hounslow's airy plain,

TO

Thou, KNELLER, tak'ft thy summer flights in vain,

In vain thy wish gives all thy rural hours

To the fair villa, and well-order'd bowers;
To court thy pencil early at thy gates,
Ambition knocks, and fleeting Beauty waits;
The boaftful Mufe, of others fame fo fure,
Implores thy aid to make her own fecure ;
The great, the fair, and (if ought nobler be,
Ought more belov'd) the Arts folicit thee.

How can'ft thou hope to fly the world, in vain
From Europe fever'd by the circling main :
Sought by the kings of every distant land,.
And every heroe worthy of thy hand.
Haft thou forgot that mighty Bourbon fear'd
He still was mortal, till thy draught appear'd;
That Cofmo chofe thy glowing form to place
Amidst her mafters of the Lombard race.

See

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