Alas! my native town was changed; Of some remember'd feature still Unalter'd on its face! Perchance 'twas fairer than before, Yet not so dear to me; Why had they stolen my childhood's haunts Why was there nought but stone and lime The Calton-hill was all cut up, Even Arthur's seat look'd different now, From every venerable place In courts where nobles used to dwell Trade rear'd her noisy head; And fashion to a newer bride At the West End was wed. Part of the Calton-hill burying-ground was removed in 1815, to nake way for Waterloo Bridge. EDINBURGH REVISITED. The grass grew green in George's square, The meadows were deserted; The house where Walter Scott was born Look'd old and broken-hearted; The order of all things to me Seem'd grievously inverted. As for my friends, there scarce was one A lonely man am I; And often when I see the stream Of busy life flow by, All glittering in the smiles of hope, O could I ever be again A curly-pated lad, I would not leave my native land For all Allahabad, It is domestic love, not gold, That makes the bosom glad. MATRIMONY. 'Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery! still thou art a bitter draught!" STERNE. To die, some wicked rascals tell us, Is a mere joke-a bagatelle, Whether we're partial to a gallows Or choose to walk into a well; But, from a paltry love of life, Say the same rogues, not over civil, To take unto yourself a wife, Alias a spouse-O! that's the devil! "Who" cry these wags, "would ever cumber His house with such a dull, insipid, Useless, heartless piece of lumber, A mere machine, a moving biped?" And then they speak of Eve and Adam, And Samson's wife, and Lot's sad dame, And poor Job's breeches-wearing madam, And hundreds more than I can name; Pandora with her poisonous box, And Helen who to Asia ran, And her who had the art to hoax Wise Socrates, unhappy man! Yet, after all, I still maintain That women, on the whole, increase Man's happiness; and can't refrain From saying they're a useful piece Of household furniture, a kind Domestic animal, that knows All the vagaries of your mind, And makes your tea, and mends your clothes. But marriage is, no doubt, a sea With many a rock that one may split on, With many a hidden shoal that we Will soon or late be sure to get on. Who ever saw a genuine tear Drop from a widow'd husband's eye? Who ever had the luck to hear, No scorn about the glance he throws In proud security on those Whose looks inform you well enough Their mates are "made of sterner stuff?" This puts a story in my head I somewhere either heard or read. A messenger, in breathless haste, With hair, erected on his head, Into Cornaro's chamber press'd, Lull'd by the music of his nose, Which mortals vulgarly call snoring. The stranger shook him pretty roughly, And tweak'd his nose, and pull'd his hair; At last Cornaro, rather gruffly, Ask’d, “What the devil brought him there ?” The messenger, in great distress, At length, in broken accents, said, "O! Sir, they've sent me here express To tell you that your wife is dead!" "Indeed!" the widow'd man replied, Turning upon his other side, And drawing o'er his eyes his Resolved on finishing his nap, сар, "Poor woman! when I wake, you'll see How great a blow this is to me!" |