IMPROMPTU IN THE a.s.sIZE COURT AT LINCOLN.

_Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea_.

The moon in the valley of Ajalon Stood still at the word of the prophet; But since certain "Essays" were written We don't think so very much of it.

Now, a prophet is raised up among us, Whose miracles none can gainsay; For he spoke, and the great river Witham Flowed three days, uphill, the wrong way.

PROLOGUE TO A CHARADE.--"d.a.m.n-AGES."

In olden time--in great Eliza's age, When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage, No play without its Prologue might appear To earn applause or ward the critic's sneer; And surely now old customs should not sleep When merry Christmas revelries we keep.

He loves old ways, old faces, and old friends, Nor to new-fangled fancies condescends; Besides, we need your kindly hearts to move Our faults to pardon and our freaks approve, For this our sport has been in haste begun, Unpractised actors and impromptu fun; So on our own deserts we dare not stand, But beg the favour that we can't command.

Most flat would fall our "cranks and wanton wiles,"

Reft of your favouring "nods and wreathed smiles,"

As some tame landscape desolately bare Is charmed by sunshine into seeming fair; So, gentle friends, if you your smiles bestow, That which is tame in us will not seem so.

Our play is a charade. We split the word, Each syllable an act, the whole a third; My first we show you by a comic play, Old, but not less the welcome, I dare say.

My second will be brought upon the stage From lisping childhood down to palsied age.

Last, but not least, our country's joy and pride, A British Jury will my whole decide; But what's the word you'll ask me, what's the word?

That you must guess, or ask some little bird; Guess as you will you'll fail; for 'tis no doubt One of those things "no fellow can find out."

TO A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND.

You say 'tis plain that poets feign, And from the truth depart; They write with ease what fibs they please, With artifice, not art; Dearer to you the simply true-- The fact without the fancy-- Than this false play of colours gay, So very vague and chancy.

No doubt 'tis well the truth to tell In scientific coteries; But I'll be bold to say she's cold, Excepting to her votaries.

The false disguise of tawdry lies May hide sweet Nature's face; But in her form the blood runs warm, As in the human race; And in the rose the dew-drop glows, And, o'er the seas serene, The sunshine white still breaks in light Of yellow, blue, and green.

In thousand rays the fancy plays; The feelings rise and bubble; The mind receives, the heart believes, And makes each pleasure double.

Then spare to draw without a flaw, Nor all too perfect make her, Lest Nature wear the dull, cold air Of some demurest Quaker-- Whose mien austere is void of cheer, Or sense of sins forgiven, And her sweet face has lost all grace Of either earth or heaven.

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE.

Footnotes

{5} Milton only received 10 pounds for _Paradise Lost_, and there is a good story told that some one copied it out in ma.n.u.script and sent it successively to three great London publishers, who all declined it as unsuitable to the public taste.

{143} Three of the Justices of Appeal.