Imatges de pÓgina

No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.


In imitation of Dean Swift.

Logicians have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind;

Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,

Homo est ratione preditum;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,

That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals and take their sport,
Nor know who 's in or out at court;

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend, a foe;


They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place,
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go,
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care,
He in his turn finds imitators,

At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.



Sure't was by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.


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 breast 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.

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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 poor,
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous 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 followed 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.


Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champaign,
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, fram'd with listing, found a place,

And brave Prince William show'd 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 scor'd,

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!



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