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ON THE DEATH OF A MAL DOG.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
It cannot hold you long.
Of whom the world might say,
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
When he put on his clothes.
As many dogs there be,
And curs of low degree.
But, when a pique began,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streeta
The wondering neighbours ran; And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied: The man recover'd of the bite;
The dog it was that died.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
had ears, "An't please you,” quoth John, “ I'm not given to letters, Nor do I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses.' Edinburgh, 1753.
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray-
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O WOLFE, to thee a streaming flood of woe
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead;
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise..
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
from bailiffs snug,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.” ADAPTED TO THE IRISH AIR, THE HUMOURS OF BALLYMAGUIRY."
Ah me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover; She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
ON THOMAS PARNELL.
This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
ON EDWARD PURDON."
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
From those who spoke her praise.
And always found her kind;
Who left a pledge behind. 1 Edward Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning. At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes. Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more ;
When she has walk'd before.
Her hangers-on cut short all;
Her last disorder mortal.
For Kent-street well may say,
She had not died to-day.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF SAINT PAVIN.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight-
Fears the approaching bridal night.
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ?
She long had wanted cause of fear.
In all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
Its panting tenant is not mine.