ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short-
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran-
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes,
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring street
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.
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses 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.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray-
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.
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-
CHAMBER.
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites the passing stranger that can pay—
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane-
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay:
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave prince William showed his lamp-black face
The morn was cold-he views with keen desire
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!
STOOPS TO CONQUER." ADAPTED TO THE IRISH AIR,
THE HUMOURS OF BALLYMAGUIRY."
АH me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry 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.
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow-
The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world-
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,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the
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 •cribbler 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;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead→→→
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more→→
She had not died to-day.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF SAINT PAVIN.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight-
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears the approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
In all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.
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