The Book of Scottish Song/The Group

The Group.

[By Alex. Wilson of Paisley. Tune, "Poor Laurie."—We give this as conveying an interesting sketch of Wilson's acquaintances, while he was the poor weaver and pedlar. The description of himself in the last verse but one, where he mentions "the want of ambition" as his worst misery, shows how little he knew of himself until he had a great object to contend for.]

Come fill up the bowl, my brave boys!
And round let us circle the treasure;
Huzza! my good fellows, rejoice!
For here is a fountain of pleasure.
And while the big bumper doth pass,
Old Bacchus shall never confound me;
I'll drink, and, between every glass,
Loud roar of the wits that surround me,
And bring their each talent to view.

Imprimis. Here sits by my side,
A hum'rous young son of the muses,
Who lord o'er our passions can ride,
And wind them wherever he chuses.
The terrible frown he can form,
Look dismally holy hereafter.
Then screw up his face to a storm,
That nigh bursts the beholder with laughter,
And makes every mortal his friend.

That little stout fellow in green,
Observe how accomplish'd and tight he's;
Good humour sits full in his mien,
And mirth his eternal delight is.
When through the wild hornpipe he sweeps,
We stare as we never had seen him,
So nimbly he capers and leaps,
You would swear that some devil was in him,
To flourish his heels so expert.

See! handing the glass to his friend,
Young Jamie, polite and endearing;
To please he is ever inclined,
Though sometimes harassingly jeering.
So sweetly a sonnet he sings,
He chats to the ladies so clever,
That Cupid should sure give him wings,
And make him his archer for ever,
To level the beauties and belles.

And there sits the Genius of song,
Whose music so nobly can warm us,
The fife now arousingly strong,
Now waking the viol to charm us:
Yet sometimes he's mournfully mute,
And though we implore while we're able,
He frowning refuses the flute,
And pensively leans on the table,
As if he were lull'd in a trance.

With golden locks loose to the wind,
Here sits a swain, kind and free-hearted,
To every one science inclined,
By every amusement diverted.
Philosophy, painting, and song,
Alternately gain his affection,
But his bliss is to store up a throng
Of insects and worms for dissection,
Of numberless sizes and kinds.

Here Wilson and Poverty sit,
Perpetually boxing together,
Till beat by good liquor she flits,
And leaves him as light as a feather.
From two most unfortunate views,
Proceeds his inconstant condition;
His joys are the smiles of the muse,
And his misery the want of ambition,
To climb to the notice of fools.

But round with the liquor, my boys!
'Tis folly to languish repining;
To swell up the tide of our joys,
This brimmer was sent us so shining.
Since blockheads and asses grow rich,
And modesty murders the wearer,
If Merit must cower in the ditch,
May she still have a bumper to cheer her,
And raise her poor head to the skies.

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