But Billy Coxcomb's hobby is his dress,

His humour's quick, but never flat or stale : I love his ease; I love his smart address;

It shines alike o'er Burgundy and ale.
The ladies love him, and the men caress

His little foibles, (for we all are frail.)
His only dullness, if he can be dull,
is when he finds his stomach rather full.
He wrote a comedy, I knew it well,

A piece of wit as brilliant, and as smart
As e'er appear'd; its touches finely fell

On all the tender passions of the heart. But who, alas! can fortune's ways foretell,

Or fathom out the deep effects of art; The pit was fill'd, the boxes, too, were cramm’d, And so at last the comedy was damn'd. Philosopher he turn'd, like Doctor Brown,

Whom, gentle reader, thou hast surely seen, in thy perambulations through the town,

With beaver white, and linen lily clean, Close cas'd in buckskins, with a martial frown,

‘That drives aside the laughter and the spleen Of hundreds, gaping at the wondrous sight, That comes upon them like some ghost of night. Philosophy, alas! is very good,

When nature tells us we require its aid ; 'Tis pleasant, too, when in a happy mood,

To hear the jokes that prettily are said, Although we think them sometimes rather rude,

When they upon ourselves alone are marte,
And then the name of author, what a blot
Upon a man who carries such a coat.
But to return to Billy, as he stands

Exulting o'er the customary view
Of Prince's Street, with high upraised hands,

He suddenly espies an object new,
And dress'd in shape so rustic-how he brands

His whip aloft! and by a loud halloo,
He's forc'd to recognise, with sorrow deep,
The clownish form and face of Jamie Sheep.
This rustic boor, (so noted as a clown

In all assemblies of ludicrous fame, Where as a butt for satire he sits down,

And tells his "S Tales," so slovenly and tame, That every muscle, wrinkle, bend, or frown,

Upon the human face unbends its frame,
Relaxing quick into a comic cut,
And grinning laughter at the rustic butt.)
By fortune's favours now a poet turn'd,

He left behind the tabor and the crook ;
The fleecy flocks with indignation spurn'd,

He left behind the mountain and the brook ;
His fierce desire for fame so strongly burn'd,

He long'd to soar like eagle, or like rook,
And tho' incapable to mount the sky,
With noble efforts still he dares to try.

* A refuter of gods, ghosts, devils, and witches.

Now Master Sheep and Billy Coxcomb met,

Like near relations to each other known, Tho', for my part, I cannot find out yet,

Why they such friends had intimately grown ; Their mighty parts were of a different set,

Their mellow keys were of a different tone; The muses they had sought, and tho' unblest, 'Twas something good that they had done their best. But to my tale, (digression is a crime,

Which, like a serpent, leaves its sting behind;
In writing poetry, we haven't time

To write philosophy; it's best defined
By Socrates, and those who choose may climb

Its rugged front. The mighty human mind
I rather love to trace in every scene,
Where mirth, and joy, and laughter intervene.)

To Weddell's now our heroes went to shew

Their handsome figures, dress'd in diff'rent guise ; The striking contrast 'twixt the scented beau

And plain rusticity, engag'd the eyes
Of daily loungers walking to and fro.

It drew from ladies many lovely sighs
Expectorating; nay, their very hearts
Seem'd smitten with our heroes or their tarts.

They enter'd Barclay's, ('tis a merry place,

To see bright genius in its native bed,) Where flights of soul and spirit one may trace

In every witty syllable that's said,
Where beaming joy is seen on every face,

Where light on airy pinions there we tread,
The dusky regions of the human soul,
Exhilarating o'er the massy bowl.
'Tis true that quarrels there do sometimes rise,

(The best of friends you know will oft do that,) In hot debates about the weight and size

Of such a one,—who fought to-day,—and what The bets, the odds,-and who shall gain the prize,

And sundry other little bits of chat, What game they caught last night, to-day, and who Was praised so largely in the last review. “ What state the trade is, how the markets stand,

How stocks are low, and wine is getting high, Tobaccos gone; I've got too much in hand,

Segars are fine, most excellent,-shall I
Present you one? I'm sure they're contraband;

I can't advise you better than to buy,
I'll sell 'em cheap.- Good evening, Mr B.
I'm glad to see you,—Want you any tea?'
“ I'm told the Speaker is to speak no more,

The ministry, 'tis said, are truly dish'd,
That steak is cold, why this is quite a bore,

Although I'm sure the change is to be wish’d. No man loves change so well as I ; that door

Will never rest. Where was it last you fish'd, In such a stream, a muddy one no doubt, Tho' muddy streams are oft the best for trout.”

The aromatic fragrance here that dwelt,

Invited straight with feeling sharp and keen,
Our heroes to partake the feast they smelt,

And such a board but seldom now is seen.
True English fare,-ne'er Epicurean felt

More powerful stimulus than here I ween,
From steam of roast and boiled, around that flew
Our noble Shepherd and his Billy drew.
Our heroes din'd, they own’d the dinner fine,

They prais'd the veuison, they prais'd its lord,
They prais’d the cook, they prais'd the sparkling wine

That now appear'd upon the social board ;
They own'd that the best season one could dine

Was when their appetite could well afford
To be encumbered with a dinner nice,
At such a moderate, low, and decent price.
The Shepherd told his wand'rings o'er and o'er,

The slight mistakes that in his cups he made,
How oft insensible upon the floor

By Bacchus's charms he suddenly was laid,
How all the dreary night alone he'd pore

Until his visage was observ'd to fade :-
(By study close, our airy thinking bard
Had nearly died, 'twas not by drinking hard.)
'Twould be indecorous were I to tell

The sad conclusion of this happy night,
To show the strange misfortunes that befel

Our gentle Shepherd, and the woful plight
In which we found him, as the midnight bell

Proclaim'd the hour. O such a dreadful sight
Appear'd before our eyes, we scarce believ'd
We were awake, we felt so truly griev'd.
They sat and drank in bumpers strong and deep,

Until the wine had all their senses seal’d;
Poor Billy calmly laid him down to sleep,

The Shepherd's eyes for several times had reel’d;
Stupidity apace began to creep

O'er ev'ry faculty; their tongues reveald,
Altho' unconscious of their broken tone,
The time was past—when both should have been gone.
The night being finish'd, here my Canto stops.

At present, reader, I must bid adieu ;
The curtain sable o'er the drama drops,

And hides entirely from thy gentle view
The Shepherd's laurels and the graceful fop's

Who gallantry thro' all their lives pursue ;
But noble heroes of the present age
Will soon again appear upon the stage.


Is there a man in life's low vale obscure,

Who meets a grave unseen by human eye?
Or lives there one, so friendless, and so poor,

Refused the tribute of a parting sigh?
No ;-there is something in the human heart

Which bids it seek communion with its kind ;
Some secret chord, some social, kindred part,

Around the soul with mystic ties entwined :

And ne'er did one to death's dark vale descend

With universal curses on his head;
Even he, who lived on earth without a friend,

Will draw a tear, when mingling with the dead. The child of poverty, contempt, and scorn,

Never beyond his natal hamlet known; The conqu’ror, on triumphal chariot borne,

To wield the sceptre on a blood-stain'd throne, Had each a friend, some dear congenial mind;

Each had a name to live its little span ;. And both at last, to clay-cold earth consign'd,

Alike proclaim the impotence of man! And hark! what sounds are these capricious Fame

Wafts from afar, and pours with panting breath? 'Tis her last tribute to a mighty name

Her trumpet echoing from the vale of Death. From Japland chill, to regions of the sun ;

From Sydney Cove, to Nootka's dreary Sound; O'er Ocean's scattered isles the tale shall run;

From Pole to Pole, the tidings float around. Her trumpet tells of one, like Hagar's child,

Who moved on earth, oppressing, and oppress’d; Who many a heart of its last hope beguild.

The troubler of the world—now laid at rest ! She tells of him, who like a comet blaz'd,

Portentous, rolling in his boundless path; While wondering nations pale with horror gaz'd,

Or, trembling, sunk, the victims of his wrath;
Of him, who like the thunderbolt of heaven,

Or fiery lightning, in its arrowy speed,
Saw states o'erturned, and mighty empires riven;

And round his feet the prostrate nations bleed :
Of him, who triumphed on Marengo's plain ;

Who made and unmade monarchs at a stroke ; Who saw them crouch like vassals in his train ;

And bent their necks beneath his iron yoke ; Of him, whom Fortune in propitious hour,

Led forth, to free, to renoyate mankind; But dazzled, with the fatal blaze of power,

To low ambition all his soul resigned. Gay phantoms rose on his deluded sight,

And Fame's bright temple in the landscape shone; The fane was halo d round with meteor-light;

And there the hero sought to rear his throne. With clear, capacious, comprehensive mind,

But cold, and calculating, ruthless heart, When Fate to him a glorious path assign'd,

He meanly sought the labyrinths of art. He burst vile Superstition's cruel bands,

but on Religion's hallow'd altars trod; And offered sacrifice with impious hands,

And hailed Mohammed prophet sent of God.

Seized with the lust of universal sway,

From torrid Indus, to the frozen pole;
He burst each barrier that opposed his way,

And deemed he could the elements control.
Untaught by all who trod the slippery path,

Who in the fruitless chace have toil'd and bled; Or urged by Fate, to meet his day of wrath,

He to the stormy north his legions led. His cup was full ; his destiny was come;

Dire was the conflict; sad that hour of woe! But hush !-let exultation now be dumb;

Poor is the triumph o'er a vanquished foe. What mind can muse upon his fate, unmoved !

When Memory traces all his bright career, And thinks of one, so hated, scorned, and loved,

And those who heard his name with dread and fear, Oh! it is humbling to the pride of man,

To mark the strange vicissitudes below; To see a brother, in life's narrow span,

Whom fate had raised so high, to sink so low ! Gay land of mirth and frivolous delight,

Reflect-be wise take warning from the past ! He shed around you martial glory bright;

Sick of the blaze, you sought repose at last. Imperial Potentate! ambitious Czar!

He taught thee first thy martial strength to feel ; And now, thou look'st in Time's dark vista far,

And bravest Freedom with thy threatening steel : How short the date, since on his splendid throne

He seemed all human efforts to defy ;
Whilst thou, in doubt, sat tottering on thy own,

His motions marked with terror in thine eye !
And thou, of Austria's plains the hoary lord,

High priest of ignorance in midnight fane; Who proudly wavest thy fratricidial sword,

To fix the glories of her gloomy reign; Unfeeling sire! thy blue-eyed daughter's bloom

Was to a selfish husband's arms consigned ; For boundless stern ambition left no rooin

For gentle love within his restless mind ; In withering widowhood she pines away,

Or fondly gazes on her budding flower ;An orphan violet-his coming May,

Her hope and promise of a happier hour. Ye meteors, rolling in a spacious sphere,

Who deem yourselves the satellites of Jove, Who trust for safety in the sword and spear,

Your strength and glory is your people's love. Think, while in plenitude of power you dream,

And lightly float on Pleasure's flowing tide ; Or restless, plan some visionary scheme,

Where mad ambition spreads her conquests wide :

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