JANE ELLIOT

  THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

  I’ve heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,
  Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day: 
  But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning;
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

  At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;
  The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;
  Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
  Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

  In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
  The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;
  At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—­
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

  At e’en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
  ‘Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
  But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie—­
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

  Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! 
  The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
  The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
  The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

  We’ll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,
  Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
  Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

CHARLES CHURCHILL

  FROM THE ROSCIAD

  [QUIN, THE ACTOR]

  His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
  Proclaimed the sullen habit of his soul. 
  Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
  Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage. 
  When Hector’s lovely widow shines in tears,
  Or Rowe’s gay rake dependent virtue jeers,
  With the same cast of features he is seen
  To chide the libertine and court the queen. 
  From the tame scene which without passion flows,
  With just desert his reputation rose. 
  Nor less he pleased when, on some surly plan,
  He was at once the actor and the man. 
  In Brute he shone unequalled:  all agree
  Garrick’s not half so great a brute as he. 
  When Cato’s laboured scenes are brought to view,
  With equal praise the actor laboured too;
  For still you’ll find, trace passions to their root,
  Small difference ’twixt the stoic and the brute. 
  In fancied scenes, as in life’s real plan,
  He could not for a moment sink the man. 
  In whate’er cast his character was laid,
  Self still, like oil, upon the surface played. 
  Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in: 
  Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff—­still ’twas Quin.

  FROM THE GHOST

  [DR. JOHNSON]