Classic Poem

THE RISE AND FALL OF STOCKS IN 1720

AN EPISTLE TO LORD RAMSAY .

MY LORD ,

W ITHOUTTEN preface or preamble,
My fancy being on a ramble,
Transported with an honest passion,
Viewing our poor bambouzl'd nation,
Biting her nails, her knuckles wringing,
Her cheeks sae blae, her lips sae hinging;
Grief and vexation 's like to kill her,
For tyning baith her tick and siller.

Allow me then to make a comment
On this affair of greatest moment,
Which has fa'n out, my Lord, since ye
Left Lothian and the Edgewell tree:
And, with your leave, I needna stickle
To say we 're in a sorry pickle,
Since poortith o'er ilk head does hover
Frae John-a-Groat's house south to Dover.
Sair have we pelted been with stocks,
Casting our credit at the cocks;
Lang guilty of the highest treason
Against the government of reason;
We madly, at our ain expences,
Stock-jobb'd away our cash and senses.

As little bairns frae winnocks hy
Drap down saip-bells to waiting fry,
Wha run and wrestle for the prize,
With face erect and watchfou eyes;
The lad wha gleggest waits upon it,
Receives the bubble on his bonnet,
Views with delight the shining beau-thing,
Which in a twinkling bursts to nothing:
Sae Britain brought on a' her troubles,
By running daftly after bubbles.

Impos'd on by lang-nebit jugglers,
Stock-jobbers, brokers, cheating smugglers,
Wha set their gowden girns sae wylie,
Tho' ne'er sae cautious, they 'd beguile ye:
The covetous infatuation
Was smittle out o'er all the nation;
Clergy, and lawyers, and physicians,
Mechanics, merchants, and musicians;
Baith sexes, of a' sorts and sizes,
Drap ilk design, and jobb'd for prizes;
Frae noblemen to livery varlets,
Frae topping toasts to hackney harlots:
Poetic dealers were but scarce,
Less browden still on cash than verse;
Only ae bard to coach did mount,
By singing praise to Sir John Blunt;
But since his mighty patron fell,
He looks just like Jock Blunt himsel.

Some lords and lairds fell'd riggs and castles,
And play'd them aff with tricky rascals,
Wha now with routh of riches vapour,
While their late honours live on paper:
But ah! the difference 'twixt good land,
And a poor bankrupt bubble's band.

Thus Europeans Indians rifle,
And give them for their gowd some trifle;
As dewgs of velvet, chips of crystal,
A facon's bell, or baubee whistle.

Merchants' and bankers' heads gade wrang,
They thought to millions they might spang,
Despis'd the virtuous road to gain,
And look'd on little bills with pain;
The well-win thousands of some years,
In ae big bargain disappears:
'Tis fair to bide, but wha can help it,
Instead of coach, on foot they skelp it.

The ten per cents wha durstna venture,
But lent great sums upon indenture,
To billies wha as frankly war'd it,
As they out of their guts had spar'd it;
When craving money they have lent,
They 're answer'd, item, " A' is spent. "
The miser hears him with a gloom,
Girns like a brock, and bites his thumb,
Syne shores to grip him by the wyson,
And keep him a' his days in prison.
" Sae may ye do, " replies the debtor,
" But that can never mend the matter;
" As soon can I mount Charlewain,
" As pay ye back your gear again. "
Poor Mouldy rins quite by himsel,
And bans like ane broke loose frae hell,
It lulls a wee my mullygrubs,
To think upon these bitten scrubs,
When naithing saves their vital low,
But the expences of a tow.

Thus children aft with carefu' hands,
In summer dam up little strands,
Collect the drizzel to a pool,
In which their glowing limbs they cool;
'Till by comes some ill deedy gift,
Wha in the bulwark makes a rift,
And with ae strake in ruins lays
The work of use, art, care, and days.

Even handycraftsmen too turn'd saucy,
And man be coaching 't thro' the causy;
Syne strut fou paughty in the alley,
Transferring thousands with some valley;
Grow rich in fancy, treat their whore,
Nor mind they were, or shall be poor:
Like little Joves they treat the fair,
With gowd frae banks built in the air;
For which their Danaes lift the lap,
And compliment them with a clap;
Which by aft jobbing grows a pox,
'Till brigs of noses fa' with stocks.

Here coachmen, grooms, or pavment trotter,
Glitter'd a while, then turn'd to snotter;
Like a shot starn, that thro' the air
Skyts east or west with unco glare,
But found neist day on hillock side,
Na better seems nor paddock ride.

Some reverend brethren left their flocks,
And sank their stipends in the stocks;
But tining baith, like Æsop's colly,
O'er late, they now lament their folly.

For three warm months, May, June, and July,
There was odd scrambling for the spulzy;
And mony a ane, 'till he grew tir'd,
Gather'd what gear his heart desir'd.
We thought that dealer's stock an ill ane,
That was not wordy haff a million.
O had this golden age but lasted,
And no sae soon been broke and blasted,
There is a person well I ken,
Might wi' the best gane right far ben;
His project better might succeeded,
And far less labour had he needed:
But 'tis a daffin to debate,
And aurgle-bargin with our fate.
Well, had this gowden age but lasted,
And not sae soon been broke and blasted,
O wow, my Lord, these had been days,
Which might have claimed your poet's lays;
But soon, alake! the mighty Dagon
Was seen to fa' without a rag on:
In harvest was a dreadfu' thunder,
Which gart a' Britain glowr and wonder;
The phizzing bout came with a blatter,
And dry'd our great sea to a gutter.

But mony fowk with wonder speir,
What can become of a' the gear?
For a' the country is repining,
And ilka ane complains of tyning.
Plain answer I had best let be,
And tell ye just a simile.

Like Belzie when he nicks a witch,
Wha sells her saul she may be rich;
He, finding this the bait to damn her,
Casts o'er her e'en his cheating glamour:
She signs and seals, and he affords
Her heaps of visionary hoords;
But when she comes to count the cunzie,
'Tis a' sklate stanes instead of money.

Thus we 've been trick'd with braw projectors,
And faithfu' managing directors,
Wha for our cash, the saul of trade,
Bonny propines of paper made;
On footing clean, drawn unco' fair,
Had they not vanisht into air.

When South Sea tyde was at a hight,
My fancy took a daring flight;
Thalia, lovely muse, inspir'd
My breast, and me with foresight fir'd;
Rapt into future months, I saw
The rich airial Babel fa';
'Yond seas I saw the upstarts drifting,
Leaving their coaches for the lifting:
These houses fit for wights gane mad,
I saw cramm'd fou as they cou'd had;
While little sauls sunk with despair,
Implor'd cauld death to end their care.
But now a sweeter scene I view,
Time has, and time shall prove it true;
For fair Astrea moves frae heav'n,
And shortly shall make a' odds even:
The honest man shall be regarded,
And villains as they ought rewarded.
The setting moon and rosie dawn
Bespeak a shining day at hand;
A glorious sun shall soon arise,
To brighten up Britannia's skies:
Our king and senate shall engage
To drive the vultures off the stage;
Trade then shall flourish, and ilk art
A lively vigour shall impart
To credit languishing and famisht,
And Lombard-street shall be replenisht.
Got safe ashore after this blast,
Britons shall smile at follies past.

God grant your Lordship joy and health,
Lang days, and rowth of real wealth;
Safe to the land of cakes heav'n send ye,
And frae cross accidents defend ye.