Devonshire Characters and Strange Events. Baring-Gould Sabine

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      As Sawney from Tweed was a trudging to Town,

      To rest his tir’d Limbs on the Grass he sat down;

      When growsing his Oatmeal, he turn’d up his Eyes,

      And kenn’d a strange Pile on three Pillars arise.

      Amaz’d he starts up, “Thou Thing of odd Form,

      That stand’st here defying each turbulent Storm;

      What art thou? Thy Office declare at my Word,

      Or thou shalt not escape this strong Arm and broad Sword.”

      Quoth the Structure, “Altho’ I’m not known unto thee,

      Thy Countrymens Lives have been shorten’d by me;

      To strike thee at once, know that Tyburn’s my Name,

      In Scotland, no doubt, you have heard of my Fame.

      When arm’d all rebellious, like Vultures you rose,

      A Set of such Shahrags, you frighten’d the Crows;

      To rid the tir’d land of such Vermin as you,

      I groan’d with receiving but barely my Due.

      And still I’m in Hopes of another to come,

      For Tyburn will certain at last be his Home;

      He’ll come from the Summit of Honour’s vast Height,

      With a Star and a Garter to dubb me a Knight.”

      His Passion now Sawney no more could contain,

      “My Sword shall strait prove all thy Hopes are in vain”;

      So saying; he brandish’d it high in the Air,

      When strait a Scotch Voice cry’d out —Sawney forbear!

      The Phantom that spoke now appear’d in a trice,

      And to the fear’d Scotsman thus gave his Advice:

      “Calm thy Breast that now boils with Vexation and Rage,

      And let what I speak thy Attention engage.

      No longer with Fury pursue this old Tree,

      His Back shall bear Vengeance for you and for me;

      For know, my dear Friend, the Time is at Hand,

      When with Englishmen, Tyburn shall thin half the Land.

      The Case is revers’d by a good Friend of ours,

      All Treason is English, and Loyalty yours:

      Posts, Honour, and Profit all Scotsmen await,

      While the Natives shall tremble and curse their hard Fate.

      The War is no more, and each Soldier and Tar,

      The Strength and the Bulwark of England in War,

      Are coming to prove our Friend’s deep Penetration,

      As the first Sacrifice to our Scotch Exaltation.”

      Here ended the Phantom, and sunk in the Ground,

      While the blue Flames of Hell glar’d terrible round;

      When for London young Sawney around turn’d his Eyes,

      Where he march’d for a Place in the new-rais’d EXCISE.

      Ye National Schemers, come tell me, I pray,

      Your Intention in this. To bring more Scotch in play!

      For this must the Tax be enforc’d with all Speed,

      For Thousands are coming between here and Tweed.

      Ah! hapless Old England, no longer be merry,

      Since B — has thus tax’d your Beer, Cyder and Perry;

      Look sullen and sad, for now this is done,

      No doubt in short Time they’ll tax Laughing and Fun.

      Yet let the Proud Laird, who presides at the Helm,

      Extend his Excise to each Thing in the Realm:

      A Tax on Spring-Water I think would be right,

      For Water, ’tis known, is as common as Light.

      Meat, Butter, and Cheese, “By my Saul that will do!

      ’Twill affect all the Land, and bring Money in too;”

      Proceed, my good Laird, and may the H-lt-r or A – e,

      Reward you for saying each infamous T – x.