Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes,
Where hunger ev'n 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 shrivel'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 unslack'd hate we view, and still,
The pow'r 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 int'rest, and our track pursue,
There shall we, though the wretched people grieve,
Ravage at large, nor ask the owner's 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 pow'rs,
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 statesmen plot, their churchmen preach;
Their noblest limbs of counsel 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, gen'rous Peace give way.

For at a tavern he will spend
His twenty shillings with a friend.
Your rabbits fricasseed and chicken,
With curious choice of dainty picking,
Each night got ready at the Crown,
With port and punch to wash 'em down,
Would scarcely serve this belly-glutton,
Whilst we must starve on mutton, mutton.
Mrs. B. My good man, too-Lord bless us !
Are born to lead unhappy lives,
[wives
Although his profits bring him clear
Almost two hundred pounds a year,
Keeps me of cash so short and bare,
That I have not a gown to wear;
Except my robe, and yellow sack,
And this old lutestring on my back.
-But we've no time, my dear, to waste.
Come, where's your cardinal? make haste.
The king, God bless his majesty, I say,
Goes to the house of lords to-day,
In a fine painted coach-and-eight,
And rides along in all his state.
And then the queen-

Mrs. S.
Ay, ay, you know,
Great folks can always make a show.
But tell me, do-I've never seen
Her present majesty, the queen.

Mrs. B. Lard! we've no time for talking now,
Hark!-one-two-three-'tis twelve I vow.
Mrs. S. Kitty, my things,-I'll soon have done;
It's time enough, you know, at one.
-Why, girl! see how the creature stands !
Some water here to wash my hands.
-Be quick-why sure the gipsy sleeps!
-Look how the drawling dawdle creeps.
That basin there-why don't you pour?
Go on, I say-stop, stop-no more-
Lud! I could beat the hussy down,
She's pour'd it all upon my gown.
-Bring me my ruffles-canst not mind?
And pin my handkerchief behind.
Sure thou hast awkwardness enough,
Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff.
-Well, heaven be praised-this work is done,
I'm ready now, my dear-let's run.
Girl,-put that bottle on the shelf,
And bring me back the key yourself.

Mrs. B. That clouded silk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with such, But you've a charming taste in dress. What might it cost you, madam?

Mrs. S. I'm glad you think so,—Kitty, here,
Bring me my cardinal, my dear.
Jacky, my love, nay don't you cry,
Take you abroad! Indeed not I;
For all the bugaboes to fright ye-
Besides, the naughty horse will bite ye;
With such a mob about the street,
Bless me, they'll tread you under feet!
Whine as you please, I'll have no blame,
You'd better blubber, than be lame.
Kitty, I say, here, take the boy,
And fetch him down the last new toy,
Make him as merry as you can,

-There, go to Kitty-there's a man.
Call in the dog, and shut the door.
Now, ma'am.

Madam, pray.

Mrs. B. I can't indeed, now.

Mrs. S.

Mrs. B. Well then, for once, I'll lead the way. Mrs. S. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! How shall we do to get along? What will become of us ?-look here, Here's all the king's horse-guards, my dear. Let us cross over-haste, be quick, -Pray, sir, take care-your horse will kick. He'll kill his rider-he's so wild. -I'm glad I did not bring the child.

Mrs. B. Don't be afraid, my dear, come on; Why don't you see the guards are gone?

Mrs. S. Well, I begin to draw my breath;
But I was almost scared to death;
For where a horse rears up and capers,
It always puts me in the vapours.
For as I live,-nay, don't you laugh,
I'd rather see a toad by half;
They kick and prance, and look so bold,
It makes my very blood run cold.
But let's go forward-come, be quick,
The crowd again grows vastly thick.

Mrs. B. Come you from Palace-yard, old dame?
Old Woman. Troth, do I, my young ladies, why?
Mrs. B. Was it much crowded when you came!
Mrs. S. And is his Majesty gone by?
Mrs. B. Can we get in, old lady, pray,
To see him robe himself to-day?

Mrs. S. Can you direct us, dame ?
Old Woman.

Troy could not stand a siege for ever.
By frequent trying, Troy was won,
All things, by trying, may be done.

Endeavour.

Mrs. B. Go thy ways, Proverbs-well, she's
Shall we turn back, or venture on? [gone-
Look how the folks press on before,
And throng impatient at the door.

Mrs. S. Perdigious! I can hardly stand,
Lord bless me, Mrs. Brown, your hand;
And you, my dear, take hold of hers,
For we must stick as close as burrs,
Or in this racket, noise, and pother,
We certainly shall lose each other.

-Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off my back. Lard, I shall faint-O lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. God bless me-I have dropp'd my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man?

Man. I, madam, no !—indeed, I fear
You'll meet with some misfortune here.
-Stand back, I say-pray, sir, forbear-
Why, don't you see the ladies there?
Put yourselves under my direction,
Ladies, I'll be your safe protection.

Mrs. S. You're very kind, sir; truly few

Are half so complaisant as you.

We shall be glad at any day

This obligation to repay,

And you'll be always sure to meet

A welcome, sir, in-Lard! the street
Bears such a name, I can't tell how
To tell him where I live, I vow.
-Mercy! what's all this noise and stir ?
Pray is the king a coming, sir?

Man. No-don't you hear the people shout? "Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out.

Mrs. B. Ay, there he goes, pray heaven bless him!

Well may the people all caress him.

-Lord, how my husband used to sit,

And drink success to honest Pitt,

And happy o'er his evening cheer,

Cry, "you shall pledge this toast, my dear."

Man. Hist-silence-don't you hear the drumming?

Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming.

There, don't you see the guards approach?

Mrs. B. Which is the king?

Scotchman. Which is the noble earl of Bute? Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute.

For he's the Laird of aw our clan,

Troth, he's a bonny muckle man.

Man. Here comes the coach, so very slow

As if it ne'er was made to go,

In all the gingerbread of state,
And staggering under its own weight.

Mrs. S. Upon my word, its monstrous fine!
Would half the gold upon 't were mine!
How gaudy all the gilding shows!
It puts one's eyes out as it goes.
What a rich glare of various hues,
What shining yellows, scarlets, blues!
It must have cost a heavy price;
"Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.

Mrs. B. So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels?

"Tis nothing else—a barge on wheels.

Man. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate,
So big the coach, the arch so strait,
It might be made to rumble through
And pass as other coaches do,
Could they a body-coachman get
So most preposterously fit,

Who'd undertake (and no rare thing)
Without a head to drive the king.

Mrs. S. Lard! what are those two ugly things
There with their hands upon the springs,
Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,

With naked breasts, and faces swell'd?
What could the saucy maker mean,

To put such things to fright the queen?
Man. Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which

you see, Of the Marine Society,

Tritons, which in the ocean dwell,

And only rise to blow their shell.

Mrs. S. Gods d'ye call those filthy men!

Why don't they go to sea again?

Pray, tell me, sir, you understand,
What do these Tritons do on land?

Mrs. B. And what are they? those hindmost

things,

Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings?

Man. Oh, they are gods too, like the others, All of one family and brothers;

Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,

Nor seen about the king before.

For show, they wear the yellow hue,
Their proper colour is true-blue.

Mrs. S. Lord bless us ! what's this noise about, Lord, what a tumult and a rout!

How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot!
Well-Heaven preserve the Earl of Bute!

I cannot stay, indeed, not I,

If there's a riot I shall die.

Let's make for any house we can,

Do give us shelter, honest man.

Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear,

I thought I should have died with fear.
This noise and racketing and hurry
Has put my nerves in such a flurry!
I could not think where you was got,
I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot;
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin?
Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.

Or Mallet's birth-place and family nothing is certainly known; but Dr. Johnson's account of his descent from the sanguinary clan of MacGregor is probably not much better founded than what he tells us of his being janitor to the highschool of Edinburgh. That officer has, from time immemorial, lived in a small house at the gate of the school, of which he sweeps the floors, and rings the bell*. Mallet, at the alleged time of his being thus employed, was private tutor in the family of Mr. Home, of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. By a Mr. Scott he was recommended to be tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose, and after travelling on the Continent with his pupils, and returning to London, made his way, according to Dr. Johnson, into the society of wits, nobles, and statesmen, by the influence of the family in which he had livedt. Perhaps the mere situation of a nobleman's tutor would not have gained such access to a diffident man; but Mallet's manners and talents were peculiarly fitted to

make their way in the world. His ballad of "William and Margaret," in 1724, first brought him into notice. He became intimate with Pope, and had so much celebrity in his day as to be praised in rhyme both by Savage and Lord Chesterfield. In time [June 1742] he was appointed under-secretary to the Prince of Wales. Some of his letters in the earlier part of his life express an interest and friendship for the poet Thomson, which do honour to his heart; but it cannot be disguised that his general history exhibits more address than principle, and his literary career is unimportant. Some years before his death he was appointed keeper of the book of entries for the port of London, and enjoyed a pension for an address to the public, which contributed to hasten the execution of Byng—a fact for which, if true, his supposed ancestors, the MacGregors, might have been ashamed to acknowledge him.

"TWAS at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet ||; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,

That held her sable shroud.

[* And is an office always entrusted, we believe, to men technically called up in years.]

[ He had no fixed salary at Mr. Home's: at the Duke of Montrose's his encouragement was an allowance yearly of thirty pounds. He was educated at Aberdeen under Professor Ker, through whose influence Mr. Scott so successfully interested himself about him.

Mallet left Edinburgh for London in August, 1723, and did not go abroad with the Montrose family. He had gained the friendship of Young in 1725, and in 1726 had changed his name from Malloch to Mallet, for he found no Englishman who could pronounce the original.]

The two introductory lines, says Percy, (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz:

When all was wrapt in dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep, &c.

For a character of Mallet's ballads, see Scott's Essay on Imitations, Poet. Works, vol. iv. p. 27. The ballad before us Percy has called one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. Rel. vol. iii. p. 165.]

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime :

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid,

Thy love refused to save.

[This account is very meagre, and Mallet's life deserves to be written at some length; for it would afford a curious history, such as literary lives too seldom offer. The materials, though scattered, are various and ample. It was to Mallet's house that Gibbon the his torian went after his removal from College.

Mallet is the only instance of an author who has written so much and so variedly, and at such different periods of life, whose first productions are still considered his best. William and Margaret is indeed a beautiful ballad, and the Banks of Endermay, another early attempt, very elegant and very pleasing.]