11
“Sat me lusisti,” in some evil hour
Creature of fortune; you, may well feel her power—
Cyclopian Goneworth, Sydney’s godlike man
Who chaos banished, when her day began,
You have have had yours—as every dog enjoys,
Till hunger’s sated and the carrion cloys—
I’ll not be personal, nor say one word
Of fiction, no, nor of the facts I’ve heard—
Posterity’s hall judge your vaunted deeds
Told oft and hopeless as are penance beads,
The “bloody head,” as Darling left the shore,
Can’t smear your conscience, ’twas but bellock’s gore,
Revenge were cowardly that woman scares,
But craft, not courage, is the game of bears,
Oh! changeling soul, oh selfish renegade,
You’d sell your country and yourelf degrade—
Eschew the past, vice-regal vices ape
Thersites, crooked in thy ways as shape—
Fair Norfolk Isle, the climate of thy birth
For ever chain thee to thy native hearth—
Look on this picture “useless Highland boors,”
See, now the gillies urge him o’er the moors,
The wornout debauchee, now knows their worth
Did they know his he’d get a pleasant berth,
“Wine bibber,” look, lest you o’erlesp the goal,
“Thou dog in forehead, but a hart in soul”
Show, noisy charlatan, thy “gig lamp” face,
Thy hearers titillate with low grimace
While Sawney saws and ribald jests you try,
Each joke, a type of Scotch vulgarity,
As bad’s the best—I grant you first in nouse
Most learned, Rev. Doctor in the House
To pec or speculate with you the same,
Both rant and banter seem a winning game.
| The epitaph on Francis Chartres do For all your tribe, especially for you, And has some novelty in being true— |
In all the phases of your past career,
