Part 115

On Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday

4th November 1793.

Old Winter, with his frosty beard, Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred: “What have I done of all the year, To bear this hated doom severe?

My cheerless suns no pleasure know; Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow; My dismal months no joys are crowning, But spleeny English hanging, drowning.

“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil. To counterbalance all this evil; Give me, and I’ve no more to say, Give me Maria’s natal day! That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.” “’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story, And Winter once rejoiced in glory.

My Spouse Nancy

Tune—“My Jo Janet.”

“Husband, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, Sir; Tho’ I am your wedded wife Yet I am not your slave, Sir.”

“One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy; Is it Man or Woman, say, My spouse Nancy?’

“If ’tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I’ll desert my sov’reign lord, And so, good bye, allegiance!”

“Sad shall I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy; Yet I’ll try to make a shift, My spouse Nancy.”

“My poor heart, then break it must, My last hour I am near it: When you lay me in the dust, Think how you will bear it.”

“I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy; Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse Nancy.”

“Well, Sir, from the silent dead, Still I’ll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you!”

“I’ll wed another like my dear Nancy, Nancy; Then all hell will fly for fear, My spouse Nancy.”

Address

Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit Night, December 4th, 1793, at the Theatre, Dumfries.

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, ’Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. “Ma’am, let me tell you,” quoth my man of rhymes, “I know your bent—these are no laughing times: Can you—but, Miss, I own I have my fears— Dissolve in pause, and sentimental tears; With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance; Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, Waving on high the desolating brand, Calling the storms to bear him o’er a guilty land?”

I could no more—askance the creature eyeing, “D’ye think,” said I, “this face was made for crying? I’ll laugh, that’s poz-nay more, the world shall know it; And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!”

Firm as my creed, Sirs, ’tis my fix’d belief, That Misery’s another word for Grief: I also think—so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy’d.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune’s blasting eye; Doom’d to that sorest task of man alive— To make three guineas do the work of five: Laugh in Misfortune’s face—the beldam witch! Say, you’ll be merry, tho’ you can’t be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove; Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur’st in desperate thought—a rope—thy neck— Or, where the beetling cliff o’erhangs the deep, Peerest to meditate the healing leap: Would’st thou be cur’d, thou silly, moping elf? Laugh at her follies—laugh e’en at thyself: Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, And love a kinder—that’s your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; And as we’re merry, may we still be wise.

Complimentary Epigram On Maria Riddell

“Praise Woman still,” his lordship roars, “Deserv’d or not, no matter?” But thee, whom all my soul adores, Ev’n Flattery cannot flatter:

Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.

1794

Remorseful Apology