Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A DIALOGUE, OCCASIONED BY MARCH OF HIGHLANDERS INTO LANCASHIRE, 1745, by JOHN BYROM


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A DIALOGUE, OCCASIONED BY MARCH OF HIGHLANDERS INTO LANCASHIRE, 1745, by                 Poet's Biography
First Line: Were you not sadly frighten'd, honest harry
Last Line: Harry. Yoi, sur, as lung as ere I con, I will.
Subject(s): Blood; Fights; Lancashire, England; Scotland - Relations With England


SIR JOHN JOBSON AND HARRY HOMESPUN.

SIR J. WERE you not sadly frighten'd, honest Harry,
To see those Highland fellows?—
HARRY. Not I, marry,—
SIR J. No! How comes that?—
HARRY. Whoy, Sur, I conno' see
What theer wur in 'um that shid freeten me.
SIR J. So many armed ruffians as came here—
Was there not cause enough for all to fear?
HARRY. Au whoa, Sur John? It happen mit be so
Wi sich foine loardly Gentlemen as yo;
But we poor foke—
SIR J. Why, prithee,—poor or rich,—
Is it not much the same?
HARRY. Nou; not so mich.
We warken hard as't iz for meeat and clooas,
And connot eem to be so feert, God knooas.
SIR J. But, Harry,—to see fire and sword advance!
To have such enemies as Rome and France!
Should not this move alike both rich and poor
To drive impending ruin from their door?
HARRY. As for the rich, Sur John, I conno' tell;
But for the poor, I'll onser for mysel:—
If fire shid come, I ha' nout for it to burn,
Nor wark to find for oather swooard or gun;
For FRANCE and ROME my feering is no greater,—
They lyen, I think, o' th' tother side o' th' weater.
SIR J. You don't consider what may be the end
Of such a strange indifference, my friend.
Pray,—whether you have more or less to lose,—
Would you not guard your country from its foes?
HARRY. Moy country, Sur? I have, yo understond,
In aw the country not one inch o' land.
They that wood'n feight, and ha' mon's blood be spilt,
May if they win,—but whoy mun I be kilt?
SIR J. Your COUNTRY, friend, is not the ground alone;
There is the KING that sits upon the throne;
The PROTESTANT SUCCESSION lies at stake,
Which bloody-minded Papists want to shake.
Now, you have some RELIGION left, I hope,
And would not tamely give it to the Pope.
HARRY. He would no' have it, happen, if I would;
Th' oud mon beloike mit think his ooan as gud;
And true religion, Sur, if I have onny,
No man i' th' ward can tak fro' me,—con he?
SIR J. If you but knew, friend Harry, what a scene
Of mischief happen'd in King James's reign;
How but for Orange's immortal Prince,
The Protestants had all been kill'd long since;
If I should tell you—
HARRY. Nay, we aw, Sur John,
Known weel enough that yo're a larned mon;
So wus my gronfayther,—and ore his ale
Monny a toime has toud another tale.—
And I darr say my gronfayther toud true:
For, lukko me, th' oud felly was no foo,
Nor rebbil noather—
SIR J. And what was't he told?
HARRY. Whoy, moor a deeal than my brainpon con houd.
Its loike yo known as haoo, Sur, th' Oliverians
Cut off th' King's hyead—
SIR J. Yes,—
HARRY. And haoo th' Presbyterians
Turnt aoot his son and maden a rebelution.
Sir. J. They did it, man, to save the constitution;
'Twas Churchmen too who brought King William in
As well as they—
HARRY. Whoy, be they whooa they winn,
One egg, he sed, wus ne'er moor loike another
Than thooas two mac o foke wurn loike tone t'other.
They wurn at aw toimes enmies to th' Blood Royal,
And naoo woudn ha it that none but hom are loyal.
Haoo con that be, Sur?
SIR J. Why, I'll tell thee how—
HARRY. Nay, but yo connot—
SIR J. Well, but hear me now;
Our Kings are stewards—
HARRY. Sur, yo meean they "wurn;"
For things, yo known, han tan another turn;
The Stuart Race is—
SIR J. Poh! thou tak'st me wrong—
HARRY. Haoo mun I tak oo reet?
SIR J. I say, so long
As Kings are our Protectors—
HARRY. Luk ye theer!
Oud Oliver agen—
SIR J. Nay, prithee, hear;
And keep thy nonsense in till I have done—
HARRY. Weel, Weel;—Izt heear yooars first, then, if I mun,
SIR J. The people, Harry, when they all agree—
HARRY. Aw, Sur?
SIR J. Be quiet!—choose them a trustee;
And call him King. Now if he break his trust,
They have a right to turn him out; and must,—
Unless they would be ruin'd.—Dost thou think,
For one man's swimming all the rest should sink?
HARRY. Yo lovn a King, Sur, waintly;—sink or swim,
No mon, I foind, is to be draoont but him.
This chozzen King mit happen draoon yo furst,
Then yo mit sink him after an yo durst.
If foke may tak whot Kings they han a moind,
Who faut wi aw theese Scotchmen con yo foind?
SIR J. Hang them all!—Have they not a King already,
That keeps his contract with the people steady?
Rebels!
HARRY. Whoy,—ay, that's reet; for they wur byetten,
They lost the feight;—but haoo, if they had getten,
Would yo ha'likt it. Sur, if an Heelander
Had toud oo "Sauce for th' goose wur sauce for th' gonder?"
SIR J. Thou'rt a sly tyke I'll talk with thee no more–
HARRY. Whoy, if yo pleeasen then, Sur, ween give ore,
Wishing that eery mon may have his reet,
Feight as feight winn;—and so, Sur John, good neet!
SIR J. Thou'lt look, I find, to thy own carcass still.
HARRY. Yoi, Sur, as lung as ere I con, I will.





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