To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore →
All hail! At length, ambitious Thane, thy rage,
To give one spark to Fame's bespangled page,
Is amply gratified a thousand eyes
Survey thy books with rapture and surprise!
Loud, of thy Tour, a thousand tongues have spoken,
And wondered - that thy bones were never broken!
Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail, The pilot of our literary whale;
Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,
Close as a supple courtier to a king!
Fate shall not shake thee off, with all its power,
Stuck, like a bat to some old ivied tower.
Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had blessed thy eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies!
Yes! his broad wing had raised thee (no bad hack)
A tom-tit, twittering on an eagle's back.
Thou, curious scrapmonger, shalt live in song,
When death hath still'd the rattle of thy tongue;
Even future babes to lisp thy name shall learn,
And Bozzy join with Wood, and Tommy Hearn,
Who drove the spiders from much prose and rhyme,
And snatch'd old stories from the jaws of time.
Sweet is thy page, I ween, that doth recite, How thou and Johnson, arm in arm, one night,
Marched through fair Edinburgh's Pactolian showers,
Which Cloacina bountifully pours;
Those gracious showers, that, fraught with fragrance, flow,
And gild, like gingerbread, the world below.
How sweetly grumbled, too, was Sam's remark,
"I smell you, master Bozzy, in the dark!"
Alas! historians are confounded dull,
A dim Boeotia reigns in every skull;
Mere beasts of burden, broken-winded, slow,
Heavy as dromedaries, on they go,
Whilst thou, a Will-o'-wisp, art here, art there,
Wild darting coruscations every where.
What tasteless mouth can gape, what eye can close,
What head can nod, o'er thy enlivening prose?
To others' works, the works of thy inditing
Are downright diamonds, to the eyes of whiting.
Think not I flatter thee, my flippant friend;
For well I know, that flattery would offend:
Yet honest praise, I'm sure, thou wouldst not shun,
Born with a stomach to digest a tun!
Who can refuse a smile, that reads thy page,
Where surly Sam, inflamed with Tory rage,
Nassau bescoundrels, and with anger big,
Swears, Whigs are rogues, and every rogue a Whig?
Who will not, too, thy pen's minutia bless,
That gives posterity the Rambler's dress?
Methinks I view his full, plain suit of brown,
The large grey bushy wig, that graced his crown;
Black worsted stockings, little silver buckles;
And shirt, that had no ruffles for his knuckles.
I mark the brown great-coat of cloth he wore,
That two huge Patagonian pockets bore,
Which Patagonians (wondrous to unfold!)
Would fairly both his Dictionaries hold.
I see the Rambler on a large bay mare,
Just like a Centaur, every danger dare;
On a full gallop dash the yielding wind;
The colt and Bozzy scampering close behind.
Of Lady Lochbuy with what glee we read, Who offer'd Sam, for breakfast, cold sheep's head, Who, press'd and worried by this dame so civil, Wished the sheep's head, and woman's at the devil.
I see you sailing both in Buchan's pot Now storming an old woman and her cot, Who, terrified at each tremendous shape, Deem'd you two demons, ready for a rape: I see all marvelling at M'Leod's together, On Sam's remarks on whey, and tanning leather: At Corrichatachin's the Lord knows how,
I see thee, Bozzy, drunk as David's sow,
And begging, with raised eyes and lengthen'd chin,
Heaven not to damn thee for the deadly sin :
I see, too, the stern moralist regale,
And pen a Latin ode to Mrs. Thrale.
I see, without a night-cap on his head,
Rare sight! bald Sam, in the Pretender's bed:
I hear (what's wonderful!) unsought by studying,
His classic dissertation upon pudding:
Of provost Jopp I mark the marvelling face,
Who gave the Rambler's freedom with a grace:
I see, too, travelling from the Isle of Egg,
The humble servant of a horse's leg;
And Snip, the tailor, from the Isle of Muck,
Who stitch'd in Sky with tolerable luck :
I see the horn, that drunkards must adore ;
The horn, the mighty horn of Rorie More;
And bloody shields, that guarded hearts in quarrels,
Now guard from rats the milk and butter barrels.
Methinks, the Caledonian dame I see,
Familiar sitting on the Rambler's knee,
Charming, with kisses sweet, the chuckling sage;
Melting, with sweetest smiles, the frost of age;
Like Sol, who darts, at times, a cheerful ray,
O'er the wan visage of a winter's day.
"Do it again, my dear," I hear Sam cry,
"See, who first tires, (my charmer!) you or I."
I see thee stuffing, with a hand uncouth,
An old dried whiting in thy Johnson's mouth;
And lo! I see withall his might and main,
Thy Johnson spit the whiting out again.
Rare anecdotes! 'tis anecdotes like these,
That bring thee glory, and the million please
On these, shall future times delighted stare,
Thou charming haberdasher of small ware!
Stewart and Robertson from thee shall learn
The simple charms of history to discern :
To thee, fair history's palm shall Livy yield,
And Tacitus, to Bozzy leave the field!
Joe Miller's self, whose page such fun provokes,
Shall quit his shroud, to grin at Bozzy's jokes!
How are we all with rapture touch'd, to see
Where, when, and at what hour, you swallowed tea;
How, once, to grace this Asiatic treat,
Came haddocks, which the Rambler could not eat!
Pleased, on thy book thy sovereign's eye-balls roll,
Who loves a gossip's story from his soul;
Blessed with the memory of the Persian king (1),
He every body knows, and every thing;
Who's dead, who's married, what poor girl, beguiled,
Hath lost a paramour and found a child;
Which gardener hath most cabbages and peas,
And which old woman hath most hives of bees;
Which farmer boasts the most prolific sows,
Cocks, hens, geese, turkeys, goats, sheep, bulls, and cows
Which barber best the ladies' locks can curl;
Which house in Windsor sells the finest purl;
Which chimney-sweep best beats in gold array,
His brush and shovel, on the first of May!
Whose dancing dogs in rigadoons excel;
And whose the puppet show, that bears the bell:
Which clever smith, the prettiest man-trap (2) makes
To save from thieves the royal ducks and drakes,
(2) His Majesty hath planted a number of those trusty guardians around his park at Windsor, for the benefit of the public.
The Guinea hens and peacocks with their eggs,
And catch his loving subjects by the legs.
O! since the prince of gossips reads thy book,
To what high honours may not Bozzy look!
The sunshine of his smile may soon be thine-
Perchance, in converse thou may'st hear him shine.
Perchance, to stamp thy merit through the nation,
He begs of Johnson's Life, thy dedication;
Asks questions (1) of thee, O thou lucky elf,
And kindly answers every one himself.
Blessed with the classic learning of a college,
Our king is not a miser in his knowledge :
Nought in the storehouse of his brains turns musty:
No razor-wit, for want of use, grows rusty;
Whate'er his head suggests, whate'er he knows,
Free as election beer from tubs it flows!
Yet, ah! superior far!-it boasts the merit
Of never fuddling people with the spirit!
Say, Bozzy, when, to bless our anxious sight,
When shall thy volume (2) burst the gates of light
O! clothed in calf, ambitious brat, be born-
Our kitchens, parlours, libraries adorn!
My fancy's keen anticipating eye
A thousand charming anecdotes can spy:
I read, I read of George (3) the learned display
On Lowth's and Warburton's immortal fray:
Of George, whose brain, if right the mark I hit,
Forms one huge cyclopædia of wit:
(1) Just after Dr. Johnson had been honoured with an interview with a certain great personage, in the Queen's library at Buckingham House, he was interrogated by a friend, concerning his reception, and his opinion of the royal intellect. ." His Majesty seems to be possessed of much good. nature, and much curiosity," replied the Doctor;" as for his yous, it is far from contemptible. His Majesty, indeed, was multifarious in his questions; but, thank God, he answered them all himself."
(2) The Life of Dr. Johnson.
(3) His Majesty's commentary on that quarrel, in which the Bishop and the Doctor pelted one the other with dirt so gracefully, will be a treasure to the lovers of literature! Mr. B. hath as good as promised it to the pub lic, and, we hope, means to keep his word.
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