JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears.
"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved, without thinking on asses."
Edinburgh, 1753.
DESCRIPTION 1 OF AN AUTHOR'S
BED-CHAMBER.
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
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, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face
Description: see Citizen of the World,' Letter xxix.
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board;
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.1
HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack :
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
1 'Edward Purdon :' educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.'
1 THE wretch, condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;
And every pang that rends the heart
Bids expectation rise.
2 Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS MARY BLAIZE.1
1 GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
2 The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind:
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
1 'Mrs Mary Blaize:' a well-known character of the time, whose profession
will appear from the verses-which are imitated from ‘Menagiana.'
3 She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.
4 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.
5 Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
6 But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all:
The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.
7 Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That, had she lived a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.
1 WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
2 Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
10 MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain!
2 Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN
KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
(PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS).
WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
|