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Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious :
First please to turn to god Mercurius :
You'll find him pictured at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side—mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light ;
Such as to modern bards decreed.
A just comparison,-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes ;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air :
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head,

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Filld with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For, let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

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Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore :
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then :
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep.
This difference only : as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns 1 himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing ;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ?


1. Damns,' &c. : imitated by Byron in his lines on Rogers.



1 Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold

you long.

2 In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

3 A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes ;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

4 And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

5 This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

•• An Elegy: ' see · Vicar of Wakefield,' chap. xvii.

6 Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

7 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye ;
And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

8 But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied ;
The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.




1 Au me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me ;
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

2 But I will rally and combat the ruiner :

Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

1. Song :' preserved by Boswell.


1 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.

2 0 Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think even conquest dear ; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,

While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

3 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour filed,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead !

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.


1 When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away


2 The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom-is, to die.

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