The City of the Plague. Fragment (Wilson John)

The street A long table covered with glasses. A party of young men and women carousing.

Young Man.
I rise to give, most noble President,
The memory of a man well known to all,
Who by keen jest, and merry anecdote,
Sharp repartee, and humorous remark
Most biting in its solemn gravity,
Much cheer'd our out-door table, and dispeled
The fogs which this rude visitor the Plague
Oft breathed across the brightest intellect.
But two days past, our ready laughter chaced
His various stories ; and it cannot be
That we have in our gamesome revelries
Forgotten Harry Wentworth. His chair stands
Empty at your right hand as if expecting
That jovial wassailer but he is gone
Into cold narrow quarters. Well, I deem
The grave did never silence with its dust
A tongue more eloquent ; but since 'tis so,
And store of boon companions yet survive,
There is no reason to be sorrowful ;
Therefore let us drink unto his memory
With acclamation, and a merry peal
Such as in life he loved.

Master of Revels. 'Tis the first death

Hath been amongst us, therefore let us drink
His memory in silence.

Young Man. Be it so.

[ They all rise, and drink their glasses in silence."]

Master of Revels. Sweet Mary Gray ! Thou hast a silver voice,
And wildly to thy native melodies
Can tune it's flute-like breath sing us a song,
And let it be, even 'mid our merriment,
Most sad, most slow, that when its music dies,
We may address ourselves to revelry,
More passionate from the calm, as men leap up
To this world's business from some heavenly dream.

MARY GRAY'S SONG.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o 'Yarrow,
When the earth wi' the go wans o' July was drest ;

But the sang o' the bonny burn sounded like sorrow,
Round ilka house cauld as a last simmer's nest.

I look'd thro' the lift o' the blue smiling morning,
But never ae wee cloud o' mist could I see

On its way up to heaven the cottage adorning,

Hanging white owre the green o' it's sheltering tree.

By the outside I ken'd that the in was forsaken,
That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor ;

O loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,
And the wild-raven croak'd on the seat by the door !

Sic silence sic lonesomeness, oh ! were bewildering I
I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep ;

I met nae bright garlands o* wee rosy children

Dancing on to the school-house just wakened frae sleep.

I past by the school-house when strangers were coming,
Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive ;

Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,
For a night o' dark vapour can silence the Hive.

I past by the pool whare the lasses at daw'ing

Used to bleach their white garments wi' dafifm and din ;

But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,
And nae laughing rose loud thro* the roar o' the linn.

I gaed into a small town when sick o' my roaming
Whare ance play'd the violthe tabor and flute;

Twas the hour lov'd by Labour, the saft-smiling gloaming,
Yet the Green round the Cross-stane was empty and
mute.

To the yellow-flower'd meadow and scant rigs o' tillage
The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;

The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,
And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

Sweet Denholm ! not thus, when I lived in thy bosom,
Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;