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These pious arms essay'd too late,
Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
For whom so oft to Mary'bone, alack !
Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain
Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane; Nor dusty Pimlico's embowering shades;
Nor Whitehall by the river's bank,
Beset with rowers dank;
Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood,
For my distracted mind,
What comfort can I find ? i Dr. Smollett imagining himself ill treated by Lord Lyttelton, wrote the above burlesque on that nobleman's monody on the death of his lady.
O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone,
moan, To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay,
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
WRITTEN IN 1746.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
clime Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd
O baneful cause! oh fatal morn,
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
While the warm blood bedews
my filial breast shall beat;
Mourn, hapless Caledonia ! mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"
VERSES ON A YOUNG LADY
PLAYING ON A HARPSICHORD, AND SINGING.
WHEN Sappho struck the quivering wire,