"Welcome, my friends; good Gilbert, here's my hand; Eat, drink, or rest, they're all at your command: And whatsoever pranks the rest may play, Still you shall be the hero of to-day, Doubts might torment, and blunders may have teaz'd, But ale can cure them; let us all be pleas'd. Thou, venerable man, let me defend The father of my new dear bosom friend; You broke your crutch, well, well, worse luck might be, I'll be your crutch, John Meldrum, lean on me, And when your lovely daughter shall complain, Send Gilbert's wooden argument again. If still you wonder that I take a wife From the unpolish'd walks of humble life, I'll tell you on what ground my love began, And let the wise confute it if they can. I saw a girl, with nature's untaught grace, Turn from my gaze a most engaging face; Herbert's Apology. I saw her drop the tear, I knew full well She felt for _you_ much more than she could tell. I found her understanding, bright as day, Through all impediments still forc'd its way; On that foundation shall my soul rely, The rock of genuine humility. Call'd as she is to act a nobler part, To rule my houshold, and to share my heart, I trust her prudence, confident to prove Days of delight, and still unfading love; For, while her inborn tenderness survives, That heav'nly charm of mothers and of wives, I'll look for joy:--Here come the neighbours all; Broach the old barrel, feast them great and small, For I'm determin'd while the sun's so bright, That this shall be a wedding-day outright: John Meldrum's wish.--Conclusion. How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come, Expand your heart, and know yourself at home. Sit down, good John;"--"I will," the old man cried, "And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride; My blessing on you: I am lame and old, I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold; But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain, _That brave good gentlemen would not disdain_ _The poor, because they're poor_: for, if they live Midst crimes that parents _never can_ forgive, If, like the forest beast they wander wild, To rob a father, or to crush a child, Nature _will_ speak, aye, just as Nature feels, And wish--a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels." SHOOTER'S HILL. [Footnote: Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition; I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind me of past feelings which I would not willingly forget.] Health! I seek thee;--dost thou love The mountain top or quiet vale, Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove On showery June's dark south-west gale? If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow, With silent step, but not forlorn; Though, goddess, at thy shrine I bow, And woo thee each returning morn.