Am I loaded with care, she takes off a large share,
That the burden ne'er makes me to reel;
Does good fortune arrive, the joy of my wife
Quite doubles the pleasure I feel.

She defends my good name, even when I'm to blame,

Firm friend as to man e'er was given;
Her compassionate breast feels for all the distressed,
Which draws down more blessings from heaven.

In health a companion delightful and dear,
Still easy, engaging, and free;

In sickness no less than the carefulest nurse,
As tender as tender can be.

We have an old mother that peevish is grown;
She snubs us like children that scarce walk alone;
She forgets we're grown up, and have sense of our
own;

Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

If we don't obey orders, whatever the case,
She frowns, and she chides, and she loses all pati-
Ence, and sometimes she hits us a slap in the face;
Which nobody can deny, &c.

Her orders so odd are, we often suspect
That age has impaired her sound intellect;
But still an old mother should have due respect;
Which nobody can deny, &c.

Let's bear with her humors as well as we can;
But why should we bear the abuse of her man!
When servants make mischief, they earn the rattan;

Which nobody should deny, &c.

Know, too, ye bad neighbors, who aim to divide
The sons from the mother, that still she's our pride;
And if ye attack her, we're all of her side;
Which nobody can deny, &c.

We'll join in her law-suits, to baffle all those
Who, to get what she has, will be often her foes;
For we know it must all be our own, when she
gues;

Which nobody can deny, deny,
Which nobody can deny.

The Mechanic's Song we find attributed to
Franklin, in an old collection of songs,
"The
Charms of Melody," in Harvard Library.

THE MECHANIO'S SONG.

Ye merry mechanics come join in my song,
And let your brisk chorus come bounding along;
Tho' some perhaps poor, and some rich there
may be,

Yet all are united, happy and free.

(CHORUS)-Happy and free,
Happy and free,

Yet all are united, happy and free.

Ye tailors of ancient and noble renown,
Who clothe all the people in country and town;
Remember that Adam (your father and head)
Tho' the lord of the world, was a tailor by trade.
Happy and free, &c.

Masons who work in stone, mortar and brick,
And lay the foundation deep, solid and thick;
Tho' hard be your labour, yet lasting your fame,
Both Egypt and China your wonders proclaim.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye smiths who forge tools for all trades here below, You've nothing to fear while you smite and you blow;

All things you may conquer, so happy your lot,
If you are careful to strike while the iron is hot.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye shoemakers nobly from ages long past,
Have defended your rights with the awl to your

last;

And cobblers all merry not only stop holes,
But work night and day for the good of our souls,
Happy and free, &c.

Ye cabinet-makers brave workers of wood,
Ав you work for the ladies your work must be good;
Ye joiners and carpenters, far off and near,
Stick close to your trades and you've nothing to

fear.

Happy and free, &c.

Ye coachmakers must not by tax be control'd,
But ship off your coaches and fetch us some gold;
The roller of your coach made Copernicus reel,
And foresee the world to turn round like a wheel.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye hatters who oft with hands not very fair,
Fix hats on a block for blockheads to wear;
Tho' charity covers a sin now and then,
You cover the heads and the sins of all men.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye carders, and spinners, and weavers attend,
And take the advice of poor Richard, your friend;
Stick close to your looms, to your wheels, and your
card,

And you never need fear of times going hard.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye printers who give us our learning and news,
And impartially print for Turks, Christians, and

Jews;

Let your favorite toast ever sound thro' the streets,
A freedom to press, and a volume in sheets.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye coopers who rattle with driver and adze,
And lather each day upon hoops and on caggs;
The famous old ballad of "Love in a tub,"
You may sing to the tune of rub-a-dub-dub.
Happy and free, &c.

Ye ship-builders, riggers, and makers of sails,
All read the new Constitution prevails;
And soon you may see on the proud swelling tide,
The ships of Columbia triumphantly ride.
Happy and free, &c.

Each tradesman turns out with his tools in his hand,
To cherish the arts and keep peace thro' the land;
Each apprentice and journeyman join in my song,
And let your full chorus come bounding along.
Happy and free, do

DAVID FRENCH

John Parke, in a work to be hereafter noticed, has "inserted some poetical translations from the Greek and Latin, which were consigned to oblivion, through the obliterating medium of rats and moths, under the sequestered canopy of an antiquated trunk; written between the years of 1720 and 1730, by the learned and facetious David French, Esq., late of the Delaware counties (now State)."

Alas! poor Yorick! All that we know of the career of the "learned and facetious" French is the record of his death, and for that we are indebted to the postscript of a letter, dated August 25, 1742:-"David French was buried yesterday in Chester church by the side of his father, and Mr. Moxon succeeds him as prothonotary" (of the court at New Castle).* His father is stated, by Mr. Fisher, to have been Colonel John French, a prominent name in the local history of the lower counties.

The translations, printed by Parke, are six in number; four are from the first, fourth, eleventh, and twenty-sixth odes of Anacreon, and two from the elegies of Ovid. The smoothness and elegance of their versification testify to the accomplished scholarship of the writer, and make us regret some evidence of his "facetiousness," as well as learning, had not turned up in the "antiquated trunk."

On a bed of myrtles made,
Or on a greeny clover laid,
Willingly I'd pass away
In carousing all the day;
Cupid by my side should stand,
With a brimmer in his hand.
Like a never-standing wheel,
Fleeting time is running still;
We ourselves will dust become,
And shall moulder in the tomb.
On my grave why should you lay
Oil, or gifts that soon decay!
Rather now before I'm dead,
With rosy garlands crown my head;
All the odors of the spring,
With a gentle mistress bring,
Ere I go to shades of night,
I'll put all my cares to flight.

II.

On His Aga

Oft by the maidens I am told,

Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!

Early Ponts and Poetry of Pennsylvania, by J. F. Fisher. -Pa Hist. Boo. Mema, vol. 11. part 11, 69,

Take the glass, and see how years
Have despoil'd thy head of hairs;
See, thy forehead bald appears!

But whether hair adorns my head,
Or all my golden tresses fled,
I do not know, but from their lore,
Resounding my approaching hour,
This truth I know, infallibly,

'Tis time to live, if death be nigh.

IIL

To a Swallow.

Say now, thou twit'ring swallow, say,
How shall I punish thee? which way?
Say, shuil I rather clip thy wing,

Or tongue, that thou no more mayst sing?
As cruel Tercus once is said

T have done, while yet thou wert a maid.
Why dost thou, ere the morn is nigh,
Prattling round my window fly?
Why snatch Bathylla from my arms,
While I in dreams possess her charms!

XXVL Of Пlimself.

When Bacchus revels in my breast,
All my cares are lull'd to rest;
Croesus' self I then despise,
He's not so happy in my eyes.
Then from my lips flow warbling sounds,
Sweetest music then abounds:
With laurel wreaths I bind my brow,
I look disdainfully below.

Let fools impetuous rush to arms,
Me the gen'rous Lyrus charms.
Quickly give me, youth, the bowl,

In one large draught I'll drown my soul;
Here, rather let me drunken lie,
Than sober, without wine to die.

MATHER BYLES.

This witty divine was born in Boston, 1706. He was the son of an Englishman, who died a year after his son's birth. On his mother's side he was descended from Richard, the founder of the Mather family, and John Cotton. Leaving Hurvard in 1725, he was ordained in 1733 the first pastor of the Hollis Street Church. Here he remained until the outbreak of the American Revolution, when, in consequence of his adherence to the English government, this connexion was broken off. In 1777 he was denounced in town meeting, and afterwards tried before a special court on the charges of having remained in the town during the siege, prayed for the king, and He was received the visits of British officers. convicted, and sentenced to imprisonment with his family in a guard-ship and to be sent to England. The first part of the sentence was changed to confinement in his own house, and the second was never put in execution. During this imprisonment he amused the good people of Boston by on one occasion very composedly inarching to and fro before his own door, mounting guard over himself, having persuaded his sentinel to go on an errand for him on condition of supplying his place during his absence. The guard was soon removed, again restored, and not long after dismi-sed-changes which drew from the doctor the remark that he had been guarded, reguarded, and disregarded." Disregarded ho romained, as he was henceforth suffered to live in retirement.

It is long since I had the pleasure of writing to you by Mr. Edward Church, to thank you for your friendly mention of me in a letter that I find was transmitted to the University of Aberdeen. I doubt whether you ever received it, but, under great weakness by old age and a palsy, I seize this opportunity of employing my daughter to repeat the thanks, which I aimed to express in that letter. Your Excellency is now the man, that I early expected to see you. I congratulate my country upon her having produced a Franklin, and can only add, I wish to meet you where complete felicity and we shall be for ever united. I am, my dear and early friead, your most affectionate and humble servant, M. BYLES

P.S. I refer you to the bearer, Mr. Pierpont, to inform you how my life, and that of my daughters, have been saved by your points.

Mather Byles

His death occurred some months after in 1788. He left two daughters, who remained unflinching loyalists, residing together in their father's house, on the corner of Nassau and Tremont streets, which no offer would induce them to part with, taking their tea off a table at which Franklin had partaken of the same beverage, blowing their fire with a bellows two hundred years old, going to church on Sundays in dresses of the last century, until 1835, when one of them, as the story goes, died of grief, as it is supposed, at having part of the old family mansion pulled down for the improvement of the street. The survivor lived two years longer. Both were unmarried, and must have attained a good old age, as we find Dr. Byles's daughters spoken of as a couple of fine young ladies by the Rev. Jacob Bailey* in 1778.

Jacob Balley was born at Rowley, Mass., in 1781. He was educated at Harvard College, and after visiting England to ob tain deacon and priest's orders, becaine a missionary in Pownalborough, Maine. Adhering to the crown at the revolution, he retired to Nova Boutia, where the remainder of his life was

Dr. Byles's reputation as a wit has overshadowed his just claims to regard as a pulpit orator. His published sermons, of which several are extant, some of them having reached a second and third edition, show him to have pussessed a fine imagination, great skill in amplification, and great command of language combined with terseness of expression. Passages in these discourses would not do discredit to the best old English divines. Several were preached on public occasions, but are, like all his other discourses, entirely free from the political allusions in which his brother clergymen so frequently indulged. On being asked why he avoided this topic, he replied, "I have thrown up four breast-works, behind which I have entrenched myself, neither of which can be forced. In the first place, I do not understand politics; in the second place, you all do, every man and mother's son of you; in the third place, you have politics all the week, pray let one day in seven be devoted to religion; in the fourth place, I am engaged in a work of infinitely greater importance: give me any subject to preach on of more consequence than the truths I bring you, and I will preach on it the next

sabbath.'

In the early part of his life, before and after his ordination, Dr. Byles wrote and published the following poems:

To his Excellency Governor Belcher, on the Death of his Lady, an Epistle. 1786, pp. 4.

On the Death of the Queen, a Poem. 1738, pp. 7.

An Elegy addressed to his Excellency Governor Belcher, on the Death of his Brother-in-law, the Hon. Daniel Oliver, Esq.; pp. 6.

The Comet, 1744, pp. 4.

The Conflagration, the God of Tempest, and Earthquake, pp. 8.

A portion of these were collected, with several others, in a small 18mo. volume of 118 pages,* in 1736, with the following brief

Preface. The Poems collected in these pages, were, for the most part, written as the amusements of looser hours, while the author belonged to the college, and was unbending his mind from severer studies in the entertainment of the classics, Most of them have been several times printed here, at London, and elsewhere, either separately or in miscellanies: and the author has now drawn them into a volume. Thus he gives up at once these lighter productions, and bids adieu to the airy Muse

The poems are for the most part devotional or elegiac, including several hyinns, verses written in Milton's Paradise Lost, To the Memory of a Young Commander slain in a battle with the Indians 1724, To an Ingenious Young Gentleman on his dedicating a poem to the author, To Piotorio on the sight of his pictures, and verses to Watts and others.

He also contributed a number of essays and occasional verses to the New England Weekly

Journal. In 1744, A Collection of Poems by It is a Several Hands, appeared in Boston. capital miscellany of verses, which seem to have been floating about in periodicals or manuscript at the period. Byles no doubt contributed some of its fifty-five pages, but none of his productions are pointed out in a copy now in the possession of Mr. George Ticknor, which bears on its title the inscription, "Th. Byles, Given her by her Father, Feb. 14, 1763," and contains several annotations in the handwriting of the original donor or owner. It is, however, easy to fix upon him the courtly answer to the following complimentary request, in which the blanks have been carefully filled up with the name of Byles.

TO ********* DESIRING TO BORROW POPE'S HOMER
From a Lady.

's hands to press
The Muse now waits from
Homer's high page, in Pope's illustrious dress:
How the pleas'd goddess triumphs to pronounce,
The names of ***, Pope, Homer, all at once!

The Answer.

Soon as your beauteous letter I peruse,
Swift as an echo flies the answ'ring muse;
Joyful and eager at your soft commands,
To bring my Pope submissive to your hands.
Go, my dear Pope, transport th' attentive fair,
And soothe, with winning harmony, her ear.
Twill add new graces to thy heav'nly song,
To be repeated by her gentle tongue;

Thy bright'ning page in unknown charms shall grow,
Fresh beauties bloom, and fire redoubled glow;
With sounds improv'd, thy artful numbers roll,
Soft as her love, and tuneful as her soul:
Old Homer's shade shall smile if she commend,
• to lend.
And Pope be proud to write, as * *

It also contains a long and pleasantly written poem on Commencement Day, and a few burlesque ballads probably written by Byles or Joseph Green. One of these is as follows.

A FULL AND TRUE ACCOUNT OF HOW THE LAMENTABLE WICKED FRENCH AND INDIAN PIRATES WERE TAKEN BY THE VALIANT ENGLISHMEN.

Good people all, pray understand

my doleful song of wo:

It tells a thing done lately, and
not very long ago.

How Frenchmen, Indians eke, a troop
(who all had drunk their cogues)
They went to take an English sloop:
O the sad pack of rogues!

The English made their party good,
each was a jolly lad:
The Indians run away for blood,
and strove to hide like mad.

Three of the fellows in a fright,
(that is to say in fears)
Leaping into the sea out-right,
Bows'd over head and ears.

They on the waves in woful wisc,
to swim did make a strife,

[So in a pond a kitten cries,
and dabbles for his life;
While boys about the border scud,
with brickbats and with stones;
Still dowse him deeper in the mud;
and break his little bones.]

What came of them we cannot tell,

though many things are said:
But this, besure, we know full well,

if they were drown'd they're dead.
Our men did neither cry nor squeek;
but fought like any sprites:
And this I to the honour speak
of them, the valiant wights!
O did I not the talent lack,
of 'thaniel Whittemore;
Up to the stars-i' th' almanack,
I'd cause their fame to roar.

Or could I sing like father French,

so clever and so high;

Their names should last like oaken bench,
to perpetuity.

How many pris'ners in they drew,
say, spirit of Tom Law!

Two Frenchmen, and papooses two,
three sannops, and a squaw.

The squaw, and the papooses, they
are to be left alive:

Two French, three Indian men must die:
which makes exactly five.

[Thus cypher, Sirs, you see I can,
and eke make poetry;

In commonwealth, sure such a man,
how useful must he be!]

The men were all condemn'd, and try'd,
and one might almost say,
They'l or be hang'd, or be repriev'd,
or else they'l run away.

Fair maidens, now see-saw, and wail,
and sing in doleful dumps;
And eke, ye lusty lubys all,

arise and stir your stumps.

This precious po'm shall sure be read,
In ev'ry town, I tro:

In every chimney corner said,

to Portsmouth, Boston fro.

And little children when they cry,
this ditty shall beguile;

And tho' they pout, and sob, and sigl,
shall hear, and hush, and smile.

The pretty picture too likewise,
a-top looks well enough;
Tho' nothing to the purpose 'tis,
'twill serve to set it off.

The poet will be glad, no doubt,
when all his verse shall say,
Each boy, and girl, and lass, and lout,
for ever, and for aye.

The collection also contains a number of eulogies, which show that Byles was in high favor in Boston. His reputation was not, however, confined to his own town or country, as he corresponded with Lansdowne, Watts, and Pope, the latter of whom sent him his Odyssey.

The

The Doctor was an inveterate punster. Rev. Jacob Bailey, the Missionary at Pownalborough, before the Revolution, says of him, after a visit to his house, in 1778: "The perpetual

reach after puns renders his conversation rather distasteful to persons of ordinary elegance and refinement." And Mr. Kettell* quotes some contemporary verses to the same effect:

There's punning Byles provokes our smiles,
A man of stately parts.

He visits folks to crack his jokes,
Which never mend their hearts.

With strutting gait and wig so great,
He walks along the streets;

And throws out wit, or what's like it,
To every one he meets

The latter part of his parody of Joseph Green's parody on his psalm, shows that he was occasionally coarse in his jesting; but we have never heard any indelicacy or irreverence alleged against him.

The anat which have been preserved, show that his reputation as a wit was well deserved. There was a slough opposite his house, in which, on a certain wet day, a chaise containing two of the town council stuck fast. Dr. Byles came to his door, and saluted the officials with the remark, "Gentlemen, I have often complained to you of this nuisance without any attention being paid to it, and I am very glad to see you stirring in this matter now."

In the year 1780, a very dark day occurred, which was long remembered as "the dark day." A lady neighbor sent her son to the Doctor to know if he could tell her the cause of the obscurity. "My dear," was the answer to the inessenger, "give my compliments to your mother, and tell her that I am as much in the dark as she is."

One day a ship arrived at Boston with three hundred street lamps. The same day, the Doctor happened to receive a call from a lady whose conversational powers were not of the kind to render a long interview desirable. He availed himself of the newly arrived cargo to despatch his visitor. "Have you heard the news?" said What news?" he, with emphasis."Oh, no!

66

Why three hundred new lights have come over in the ship this morning from London, and the selectmen have wisely ordered them to be put in irons immediately." The visitor forthwith decamped in search of the particulars of this invasion of religious liberty.

When brought before his judges at the time of his trial they requested him to sit down and warm himself. "Gentleinen," was the reply, "when I came among you, I expected persecution; but I could not think you would have offered me the fire so suddenly."

A mot of Byles's is related by the hospitable wits of Boston, to the visitor, as he passes by King's Chapel, in Tremont street. There are two courses of windows by which that building is lighted on its sides; the lower ones are nearly square. In allusion to this architectural peculiarity of the square embrasures of its solid walls, Byles said that he had often heard of ecclesiastical canons, but never saw the portholes before. Another, a revolutionary witticism, does justice

Specimens of American Poetry, i. 195.

+We are indebted for a few capital examples, to Tudor's Life of Otis.

to Byles's toryism. When the British troops, the lobsters, passed his door, after entering the town: "Ah," said he, now our grievances will be reddressed."*

66

Ilis system of practical joking is said to have been as felicitous as his verbal, though rather more expensive to the victims.

The Doctor, however, occasionally met his match. A lady whom he had long courted unsuccessfully, married a gentleman by the name of Quincy. "So, madam," said the unsuccessful suitor, on meeting her afterwards, "it appears you prefer a Quincy to Byles." "Yes, for if there had been anything worse than biles, God would have afflicted Job with them."

He was not, however, always unsuccessful with the fair sex, as he was twice married. His first wife was a niece of Governor Belcher, and her successor, the dignity apparently diminishing with the relationship, a daughter of LieutenantGovernor Tailer.

In person Dr. Byles was tall and well proportioned. His voice was powerful and melodious, and he was a graceful and impressive speaker.

FROM A SERMON ON THE PRESENT VILENESS OF THE BODY, AND ITS FUTURE GLORIOUS CHANGE BY CHRIST.

What

It is a dying body, and therefore a vile Body. Here our Bodies now stand, perhaps flourishing in all the Pride and Bloom of Youth: strong our Sinews; moist our Bones; active and supple our Joints; our Pulses beating with Vigor, and our Hearts leaping with a Profusion of Life and Energy. But oh! vain Appearance and gaudy Dream! Surely every man at his best Estate, is altogether Vanity. He walks in a vain show, he glitters with delusive Colors; he spends his years as an Idle Tale. avails it, that he is now hardy and robust, who must quickly pant upon a Death-bed. What avails it, that his limbs are sprightly in their easy Motions, which must quickly stretch in their dying Agony. The Lips now flush'd with a Rosy Colour, will anon quiver and turn pale. The Eyes that rose with a sparkling Vivacity, will fix in a ghastly Horror. The most musical Voice will be stopp'd; and the tuneful Breath fly away. The Face where Beauty

now triumphs, will appear cold, and wan, and dis mal, rifled by the Hand of Death. A cold sweat will chill the Body; a hoarse Rattling will fill the Throat; the Heart will heave with Pain and Labour, and the Lungs catch for Breath, but gasp in vain. Our Friends stand in Tears about our Bed. They weep; but they cannot help us. The very water with which they would cool and moisten our parched Mouths, we receive with a hollow groan. Anon we give a Gasp, and they shriek out in Distress, "Oh! He's Gone! He's Dead!" The Body in that Instant stretches on the sheets, an awful Corpse.