  Let us take to the road!—Beggar's Opera. I. M'adam, hail! Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land! Oh, universal Leveller! all hail! To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going— To thee—how much for thy commodious plan, Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing! The Bristol mail Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible, When carrying patriots now shall never fail Those of the most "unshaken public principle." Hail to thee, Scott of Scots! Thou northern light, amid those heavy men! Foe to Stonehenge, yet friend to all beside, Thou scatter'st flints and favours far and wide, From palaces to cots; Dispenser of coagulated good! Distributor of granite and of food! Long may thy fame its even path march on, E'en when thy sons are dead! Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone To those who ask for bread! II. Thy first great trial in this mighty town Was, if I rightly recollect, upon That gentle hill which goeth Down from "the County" to the Palace gate, And, like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural Society,— The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, Where ladies play high shawl and satin games— A little Hell of lace! And past the AthenÆum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Waterloo Place, Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode So well, that paviours threw their rammers by, Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die! III. Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,— Preventing though the rattling in the street, Yet kicking up a row, Upon the stones—ah! truly watchman-like, Encouraging thy victims all to strike, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily;— Thou hast smooth'd, alas, the path to the Old Bailey! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach,— Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers. IV. Who shall dispute thy name! Insculpt in stone in every street, We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquer'd fame! Where'er we take, even at this time, our way, Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare; And with a patient care, Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,— Prophetically, follow'd, Mac! thy plan:— For he, we know (History says so), Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak The smoothest Greek! V. It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Beside the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only;—mighty Mac! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that winged hack, Thou hast observ'd the highways in the sky! Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep, And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Dost think it best for sons of song to keep The noiseless tenor of their way? (see Gray). What line of road should poets take to bring Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!— Those waters which can wet a man to sing! Which, like thy fame, "from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" VI. That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,— Cadell's a wayward wight! Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the town,— And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown! "Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt (One whole edition's out), And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;— "Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair"— (Blair is a Scottish name), What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam? VII. O! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry, That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone, Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone! Of a right ancient line thou comest,—through Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue, Until we see thy sire before our eyes, Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise! But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, and ne'er Have our walks since been fair! Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, For ever varying, through his varying range, Time maketh all things even! In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven! He hath redeem'd the Adams, and contriv'd— (How are Time's wonders hiv'd!) In pity to mankind, and to befriend 'em— (Time is above all praise) That he, who first did make our evil ways, Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em! |
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