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" 'Tis like the Sun, because 'tis gilt,
• Besides it travels in a Belt.
or 'Tis like the Dutch we plainly see,
“ Because that State, whenever we
" A Push for our own Interest make,
Does instantly our Sides forsake.
“ The Moon--why when all's said and done,
“ A Sword is very like the Moon:

“ For if his Majesty, (God bless him)
" When Country Sheriff comes to address him,
“ Is pleased his Favo; to bestow
« On him, before him kneeling low,
- This o'er his shoulders glitters bright,
“ And gives the Glory to the Knight. [Night]
'Tis like a Kilderkin, po doubt,
“ For 'tis not long in drawing out.
" 'Tis like a Doctor, for who will

Dispute a Doctor's power to kill?
“ But why a Sword is like a Whale,
Is no such easy thing to tell.
" But since all Swords, are Swords d'ye see,

Why let it then a Backsword be: " Which if well used will seldon fail To raise up somewhat like a Whale."

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1

JOHN SCOTT.

Southwark-1730—1783.

A very amiable man, whose opinions were seldom wrong,

and whose feelings always right. Some of his poems are

peculiarly happy.

O DF.

This
While evening

His scene how rich from Thames's side,

suns their amber beam
Spread o'er the glossy-surfaced tide,
And ʼmidst the masts and cordage gleam;
Blaze on the roofs with turrets crown'd,
And gild green pastures stretch'd around,
And gild the slope of that high ground,
Whose corn-fields bright the prospect bound.

* Shooter's Hill.

This view was taken on the north side of the Thi mes, at Ratcliff,

The white sails glide along the shore,
Red streamers on the breezes play,
The boat-men ply the dashing oar,
And wide their various freight convey ;
Some, Neptune's hardy thoughtless train,
And some, the caríul sons of gain,
And some, the enamour'd nymph and swain,
Listening to musick's soothing strain.

But there, while these the sight allure.
Still fancy wings her flight away
To woods recluse, and vales obsure,
And streams that solitary stray;
To view the pine-grove on the hill,
The rocks that trickling springs distill,
The meads that quivering aspins fill,
Or alders crowding o'er the rill.

And where the trees unfold their bloom,
And where the banks their floriage bear,
And all effuse a rich perfume,
That hovers in the soft calm air;
The hedre-row path to wind along,
To hear the bleating fleecy throng,
To hear the sky-lark's airy song,
And throstle's note so clear and strong.

But
say,

if there our steps were brought,
Would these their power to please retain ?
Say, would not restless, roving thought
Turn back to busy scenes again?
O strange formation of the mind!
Still though the present fair we find,
Still tow'rds the absent thus inclined,
Thus fix'd on objects left behind !

O DE.

Written after reading some modern Love-rerses.' Take hence this tuneful triflers' lays ! I'll hear no more the unmeaning strain Of Venus' Loves, and Cupids' darts, And killing eyes, and wounded hearts; All flattery's round of fulsome praise, All falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse, whose tongue has told
Love's genuine plaintive tender tale ;
Bring me the Muse, whose sounds of woe
'Midst deaths' dread scenes so sweetly flow,
When friendships' faithful breast lies cold,
When beauty's blooming cheek is pale:

Bring these-I like their grief sincere;
It sooths my sympathetick gloom :
For, oh ! love's genuine pains I've born,
And deaths' dread rage has made me mourn;
I've wept o'er friendship's early bier,
And dropt the tear on beauty's tomb.

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I Half that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round,
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lure's from cities and from fields,.
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms ;
And when ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, a d fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round :
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
Aud burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphans moans i
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes,

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