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Then may oft such dreams return,
A Hymn on 1 Chron. xvii. 16. And David the King
came, and sat before the Lord, and said, Who am I, O Lord God, and what is mine House, that thou hast brought me hitherto?
LORD! in this last concluding eve,
Thy name I will adore;
hast added more.
Nor life alone, but health, and strength
Thro' all the indulgent year: And liberty, than life itself
To me more justly dear.
Thy bounty has with richest store,
My table daily spread :
With food convenient fed.
And when the timely hours of sleep
To needful rest invite; Thou dost my peaceful slumbers watch,
And guard me every night.
When distant friends secure I reach'd,
Thy Providence I own;
And travel'd roads unknown.
In deaths and dangers, every place
afford : Safe I went out, and safe return'd,
For thou went with me, Lord !
Oh! may thy presence guard me still,
And guide in all my ways ;
And tread a dangerous maze.
And whilst our errors, Lord, and all
Thy mercies I review :
That brought me hitherto !
Harry Carey, for by that name he is better known, was
the author of Chrononhotonthologos, and of the satires which fixed upon Ambrose Philips the nickname of Namby-Pamby. Though a musician by profession, he hated and ridiculed the absurdity of the Italian Opera, on which he wrote a burlesque, called the Dragon of Wantly, and afterwards a sequel called the Dragoness, which his friend John Frederick Lampe set to musick, and did them both justice. The popular ballad of “ Sally in our Alley” is his, and was composed by him in consequence of overhearing the courtship of two young persons in humble life, while walking in the fields. The simplicity and nature that is in it will ever entitle it to favour. Carey had the rare merit of regarding decency, though he was a humourist and a song-writer. His life was led without reproach, but it was unfortunate, and he died by his own hands,
A Satyr on the Luxury and Effeminacy of the Age. BRITONS ! for shame, give all these follies o'er, Your antient native nobleness restore :
Learn to be manly, learn to be sincere,
Where is the noble race of British youth,
To learning, and to manly arts estranged,
Our petits maitres now are so polite,
Saucy and pert, abrupt, presumptive, loud,
'They talk not of our army, oi our fleet,