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BURLESQUE ODE.
WHERE wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate
From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore:

These pious arms essay'd too late,
To drive the dismal phantom from the door.

Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days;

For whom so oft to Mary'bone, alack !
Thy sorrels dragg'd thee through the worst of ways !

Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain
Thy steps, though tended by the Cambrian maids;

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 the’ Exchange pours forth its tawny sons;

Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood,
Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood;
Nor where the Mint's contaminated kennel runs:.
Il doth it now beseem,
That thou shouldst doze and dream,
When Death in mortal armour came,
And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame.
Her liberal hand and sympathizing breast
The brute creation kindly bless'd:
Where'er she trod grimalkin purr'd around,
The squeaking pigs her bounty own'd;
Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose
Did she glad sustenance refuse;
The strutting cock she daily fed,
And turkey with his snout so red;
Of chickens careful as the pious hen,
Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren;
While redbreast hopp'd before her in the hall,
As if she common mother were of all.

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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,
And I am left behind to

weep
and

moan, To sing thy dirge in sad funereal lay,

!-day !

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN 1746.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peacethy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life!
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy, ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every

clime Through the wide-spreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd

with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of

gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night;
No strains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

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O baneful cause! oh fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murdering steel!

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And stretch'd beneath the inclement skies
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

my veins,

While the warm blood bedews
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within

my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:-

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,
The throbbing breast was all on fire:
And when she raised the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!
But had the nymph possessed with these
Thy softer, chaster power to please;
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;

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