And this he manag'd with fuch art,
As to defy the pillory and the cart.
But now he's run
His Mufe exhaufted, or control'd
With a galling bridle;
Or, as I am told,
He is himself grown devilish idle!
Then let a new Democritus arise,
Exalting Virtue to her native fkies;
While Vice with Ridicule he keenly ftings,
Nor fears, nor flatters, people, minifters, or kings!
WHAT! a new Feter Findar?--Delightful, no doubt;
Yet 't were manners to wait till the old were worn out.
THE PARSON AND HIS MAID: A TALE.
[From the Morning Chronicle.]
AN overgrown Vicar, who often had made
A little too free with his buxom housemaid,
At length found it prudent, for fear of disgrace,
To look for another to fill up the place.
Another foon came, who with fly, fober look
Fairly own'd fhe was not very much of a cook;
As a fempftrefs or housemaid but little fhe knew;
And confefs'd that the neither could wash, bake, nor brew:
Yet ftill the arch gypfey, demure as a Turk,
Demanded ten guineas a year for her work.
"Ten guineas!-for what?" fays the Vicar, half wild.
"Please your Rev'rence," fays he, "I am never with
ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. LAMB TO MISS TOOGOOD.
WOMAN too good! that I'll never believe: Was e'er fuch a thing from the days of old Eve ?” "There is, I am fure; and I've made her my wife, To blefs me with comfort the rest of my life."
"Alas! my good friend, your fine fcheme will prove vain ; For indeed flie will never be too good again."
EACH married man," Dick roundly faid,
antlers needs muft carry:"
"Your father thought the fame," quoth Ned,
"And therefore ne'er would marry!"
TO JULIA.BY T. LITTLE ESQ
-fine me fit nulla Venus.
OUR hearts, my love, were doom'd to be
The genuine twins of Sympathy;
They live with one fenfation:
In joy or grief, but most in love,
Our heartfirings mufically move,
And thrill with like vibration.
How often have I heard thee fay,
Thy vital pulfe fhall ceafe to play
When mine no more is moving!
Since now to feel a joy alone
Were worfe to thee than feeling none,
Such fympathy 's in loving!
And, oh! how often in thofe eyes,
Which melting beam'd, like azure skies,
In dewy vernal weather;
How often have I raptur'd read
The burning glance, that filent said,
แ Now, love, we feel together!"
JULIA'S KISS.
BY T. LITTLE, ESQ
WHEN infant Blifs in rofes flept,
Cupid upon his flumber crept,
And while a balmy figh he ftole,
Exhaling from the infant's foul,
He fmiling faid, "With this, with this,
I'll fcent my Julia's burning kifs!"
Nay more, he ftole to Venus' bed,
Ere yet the fanguine flush had fled,
Which Love's divineft, dearest flame
Had kindled through her panting frame.
Her foul ftill dwelt on memory's themes,
Still floated in voluptuous dreams,
And every joy fhe felt before,
In flumber now was acting o'er.
From her ripe lips, which feem'd to thrill
As in the war of kiffes ftill,
And am'rous to each other clung,
He stole the dew that trembling hung,
And fmiling faid, "With this, with this,
I'll bathe my Julia's burning kifs!"
BY T. LITTLE, ESQ
Sic juvat perire.
HEN wearied wretches fink to fleep,
How heavenly foft their flumbers lie!
How fweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the foft and graffy bed,
Where flowrets deck the green earth's breaft?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
'Tis there I wish to fleep at reft!
Oh! let not tears embalm
None but the dews by twilight given !
Oh! let not fighs difturb the gloom,
None but the whispering winds of heaven!
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS
M'CORMICK,
LATE OF DROMORE, STONECUTTER.
HE clock ftruck fix-Dick * rang the bell,
That every morn, in yonder steeple,
From each adjacent hill and dell
Calls to their work the labouring people.
The clock ftruck feven-again the bell,
With deeper tone, by Dick was toll'd ;
But, ah!-it was thy paffing-knell,
Lamented Thomas! now it knoll'd.
Obliging, ufeful Thomas! long
Shall old Dromore thy lofs regret,
Ingenious, ready, active, strong,
Thy hand to all things thou couldst fet..
Did Want require a little hut
To fhield her from the wintry ftorm &
Or Wealth a ponderous column cut?
Expertly both thou couldft perform.
E'en to the Sculptor's art, 't is faid,
Thy towering genius fometimes rofe;
And many a motto o'er the dead
Thy chifel's graphic neatness shows..
But now among the filent train,
Where oft thy bufy day was pafs'd,
Forming the tombstone's letter'd plane,
Thou, too, art gone to reft at last!
And, fure, ungrateful were the Mufe.
That mark'd thy merit many a day,
If the to it would now refuse
The flight memorial of-a lay.
* The name of the fexton.
TO THE MEMORY OF A WELL-KNOWN AND FAVOURITE
SPOTTED DOG, NAMED POMPEY-BELONGING TO MR.
BENJAMIN TRAVERS, OF CLAPTON.
HE ERE Pompey lies, Pompey of spotless fame,
Yet fpots he had, and Spot became his name
Though full of fpots, Spot liv'd without a fpot-
Ah! who can count fuch spots in human lot!
His fpots were beauties of a spotless kind,
Spots without fpot on good Spot trac'd we find;
Of honeft Spot, this truth may be relied,
In this fpot, fpotted Spot lies fpotlefs, as he liv'd and died. Hackney.
KING CHARLEMAGNE'S SPELL;
OR, AGATHA'S RING.
[From the Suffex Chronicle.],
T was frange that he lov'd her, for youth was gone by, And the bloom of her beauty was fled,
'T was the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her eye, And all but the monarch difgufted descry
The art that had ting'd her cheek red.
Yet he thought that with Agatha none might compare,
That kings might be proud of her chain :
The court was a defert if he were not there,
She only was lovely, the only was fair-
Such dotage poffefs'd Charlemagne.
A joy ill diffembled foon gladdens them all,
For Agatha fickens and dies:
And now they are ready with bier and with pall,,
The tapers glean gloomy amid the high hall,
And the bell it tolls long through the fkies..
They came; but he fent them in anger away,
For fhe fhould not be buried, he faid;
And despite of all counfel, for many a day,.
Array'd in her coftly apparel fhe lay,
And he would go fit by the dead.
* He was occafionally called Spot, as well as Pompey.
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