WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,

Invites each paffing ftranger that can pay ;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parfon's black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;

d;

There in a lonely room, from bailiffs fnug,
The Mufe found Scroggen ftretch'd beneath a rug;
A window patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly fhew'd the state in which he lay
The fanded floor that grits beneath the tread
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:
The royal game of goofe was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The feafons, fram'd with lifting, found a place,
And brave prince William fhew'd his lamp-black face:

The

The morn was cold, he views with keen defire
The rufty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears, the frieze was fcor'd,
And five crack'd tea cups drefs'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a ftocking all the day!

ТНЕ

THE

HER MIT.

A BALL A D.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLX V.

THE FOLLOWING

LETTER,

ADDRESSED то THE

PRINTER OF THE ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE,

APPEARED IN THAT PAPER, IN JUNE,

MDCCLXVII.

SIR,

As there is nothing I dislike so much as news

paper controverfy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concife as poffible in informing a correfpondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think fo ftill. I faid, I was told by the bookfeller that it was then firft published; but in that, it feems, I was mif-informed, and my reading was not extenfive enough to set me right.

Another correfpondent of yours accufes me of having taken a ballad, I publifhed fome time ago, C

VOL. I.

from