THE SOW OF FEELING.

Well! I protest there's no such thing as dealing
With these starch'd poets-with these Men of Feeling!
Epilogue to the Prince of Tunis. 1

MALIGNANT planets! do ye still combine
Against this wayward dreary life of mine!
Has pitiless oppression-cruel case!
Gain'd sole possession of the human race?
By cruel hands has every virtue bled,
And innocence from men to vultures fled!

Thrice happy, had I lived in Jewish time,
When swallowing pork or pig was deem'd a crime;
My husband long had blest my longing arms,
Long, long had known love's sympathetic charms!
My children too—a little suckling race,
With all their father growing in their face,
From their prolific dam had ne'er been torn,
Nor to the bloody stalls of butchers borne.
Ah! luxury! to you my being owes
Its load of misery-its load of woes!
With heavy heart, I saunter all the day,
Gruntle and murmur all my hours away!
In vain I try to summon old desire,

For favourite sports-for wallowing in the mire.
Thoughts of my husband-of my children slain,
Turn all my wonted pleasure into pain!
How oft did we, in Phoebus warming ray,
Bask on the humid softness of the clay?

1 This Epilogue was spoken by Mrs. Weston, and appears in the

Weekly Magazine' 1773. This 'Prince' was almost still-born, and had a very short 'reign.' He was one of the Dramatic children of Henry Mackenzie, the Author of the Man of Feeling, a very amiable but inane and puling writer.

Oft did his lusty head defend my tail
From the rude whispers of the angry gale!
While nose-refreshing puddles stream'd around,
And floating odours hail'd the dung-clad ground.
Near by a rustic mill's enchanting clack,
Where plenteous bushels load the peasant's back,
In straw-crown'd hovel, there to life we came,
One boar our father and one sow our dam:
While tender infants on the mother's breast,
A flame divine on either shone confest;
In riper hours love's more than ardent blaze,
Enkindled all his passion, all his praise!
No deadly, sinful passion fired his soul,
Virtue o'er all his actions gain'd control:
That cherub which attracts the female heart,
And makes them soonest with their beauty part,
Attracted mine:-I gave him all my love,
In the recesses of a verdant grove:
'Twas there I listen'd to his warmest vows,
Amidst the pendant melancholy boughs;
'Twas there my trusty lover shook for me
A shower of acorns from the oaken tree;
And from the teeming earth, with joy, plough'd out
The roots salubrious with his hardy snout.

But Happiness, a floating meteor thou,
That still inconstant art to man and sow,

Left us in gloomiest horrors to reside,
Near by the deep-dyed sanguinary tide,

Where whetting steel prepares the butch'ring knives,
With greater ease to take the harmless lives

Of cows, and calves, and sheep, and hog, who fear
The bite of bull-dogs, that incessant tear

Their flesh, and keenly suck the blood-distilling ear!

At length the day, th' eventful day drew near,
Detested cause of many a briny tear!

I'll weep till sorrow shall my eye-lids drain,
A tender husband, and a brother slain!
Alas! the lovely languor of his eye,

When the base murderers bore him captive by!
His mournful voice! the music of his groans,
Had melted any hearts-but hearts of stones!
O! had some angel at that instant come,
Given me four nimble fingers and a thumb,
The blood-stain'd blade I'd turn'd upon his foe,
And sudden sent him to the shades below-
Where, or Pythagoras' opinion jests,

Beasts are made butchers-butchers changed to beasts.1
In early times the law had wise decreed,

For human food but reptiles few should bleed;
But monstrous man, still erring from the laws,
The curse of heaven on his banquet draws!
Already has he drain'd the marshes dry
For frogs, new emblems of his luxury;
And soon the toad and lizard will come home,
Pure victims to the hungry glutton's womb:
Cats, rats, and mice, their destiny may mourn,
In time their carcases on spits must turn;
They may rejoice to-day-while I resign
Life, to be number'd 'mongst the feeling swine.

1 Similarly Gay transforms the 'cruel coachman' into his 'hack' in the future world.-Trivia.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. WILSON, AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN THE

CHARACTER OF AN EDINBURGH BUCK.1

YE who oft finish care in Lethe's cup,

Who love to swear, and roar, and keep it up,
List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight

Is sleep all day and riot all the night.

Last night, when potent draughts of mellow wine
Did sober reason into wit refine;

When lusty Bacchus had contrived to drain
The sullen vapours from our shallow brain,
We sallied forth (for valour's dazzling sun
Up to his bright meridian had run);
And like renowned Quixotte and his squire,
Spoils and adventures were our sole desire.

First we approach'd a seeming sober dame,
Preceded by a lanthorn's pallid flame,
Borne by a livery'd puppy's servile hand,
The slave obsequious of her stern command.
Curse on those cits, said I, who dare disgrace
Our streets at midnight with a sober face;
Let never tallow-chandler give them light,
To guide them through the dangers of the night.
The valet's cane we snatch'd, and, demme! I
Made the frail lanthorn on the pavement lie.
The guard, still watchful of the lieges' harm,
With slow-paced motion stalk'd at the alarm.

1 Mr. William Martin, Auctioneer and Bookseller of facetious memory, was wont to recite this Epilogue at his famous 'parties.' [Kay's Portraits, p. 43. Vol. I.] Wilson was a popular second-rate Actor. There is a portrait of him [?] in the character of Patie' prefixed to Morison and Son's edition of the Gentle Shepherd, 1780. Perth, 1 Vol. 12mo.

Guard, seize the rogues-the angry madam cried,
And all the guard with Seize ta rogue replied.
As in a war, there's nothing judged so right
As a concerted and prudential flight;

So we from guard and scandal to be freed,
Left them the field and burial of their dead.

Next we approach'd the bounds of George's square,
Blest place! No watch, no constables come there.
Now had they borrow'd Argus' eyes who saw us,
All was made dark and desolate as chaos:

Lamps tumbled after lamps, and lost their lustres,
Like Doomsday, when the stars shall fall in clusters.
Let fancy paint what dazzling glory grew

From crystal gems, when Phoebus came in view;
Each shatter'd orb ten thousand fragments strews,

And a new sun in every fragment shows.

Hear then, my Bucks! how drunken fate decreed us For a nocturnal visit to the Meadows,1

And how we, val'rous champions, durst engage,

2

O deed unequall'd! both the Bridge and Cage,
The rage of perilous winters which had stood,
This 'gainst the wind, and that against the flood;
But what nor wind, nor flood, nor heav'n could bend e'er,
We tumbled down, my Bucks, and made surrender.

What are your far-famed warriors to us,

'Bout whom historians make such mighty fuss :
Posterity may think it was uncommon
That Troy should be pillaged for a woman;

But ours your ten years' sieges will excel,

And justly be esteem'd the nonpareil.

Our cause is slighter than a dame's betrothing,

For all these mighty feats have sprung from nothing.

1 Note 1, p. 27.

2 The Cage' was a small building at the end of the central walk in the Meadows. The Bridge' crossed a small stream in the same walk.