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The needy seldom passed her door,

And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor

Who left a pledge behind. She strove the neighbourhood to please

With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways-

Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her -

When she has walked before.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.
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.

A kind and gentle heart he had

To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he cladWhen he put on his clothes.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all ; The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

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.

And in that town a dog was found,

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

And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;

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

Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.
The wound it seemed both sore and sad

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

They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues they lied, -The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died !

YE muses, pour the pitying tear

For Pollio snatched away;
Oh, had he lived another year-

He had not died to-day.
Oh, were he born to bless mankind

In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fall'n behind-

Whene'er he went before. How sad the groves and plains appear,

And sympathetic sheep : Ev'n pitying hills would drop a tear

If hills could learn to weep. His bounty in exalted strain

Each bard may well display, Since none implored relief in vain

That went relieved away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng

His obsequies forbid :
He still shall live, shall live as long-

As ever dead man did.




JOHN GILPIN. Showing how he went farther than he in

tended, and came safe home again. The story of John Gilpin's ride was related to Cowper by his friend, Lady Austen, who had heard it as a child. It caused the poet à sleepless night, we are told, as he was kept

So three doors off the chaise was stayed,

Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog,

To dash through thick and thin.

It has pre

Smack went the whip, round went the

wheels, Were never folks glad ! The stones did rattle underneath

As if Cheapside were mad.

awake by laughter at it. During these restless hours he turned it into the famous ballad. It appeared in the “Public Advertiser," November 14th, 1782, anonymously.

A celebrated actor named Henderson took it for one of his public recitations at Freemasons' Hall. It became immediately so popular that it was printed everywhere -- in newspapers, magazines, and separately. It was even sung as a common ballad in the streets. served its popularity to the present date.

The original John Gilpin was, it is said, a Mr. Beyer, a linendraper, who lived at the Cheapside corner of Paternoster Row. He died in 1791, at the age of nearly a hundred years. JOHN GILPIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown,
A trainband captain eke was he

Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,

Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen. " To-morrow is our wedding day,

And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair.

John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seized fast the fiowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride,

But soon came down again ;

For saddletree scarce reached had he,

His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,

Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more.

“My sister, and my sister's child,

Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

On horseback after we."

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs

“The wine is left behind !"

He soon replied, “I do admire

Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

"Good lack !" quoth he; "yet bring it me,

My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword

When I do exercise."

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !)

Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved,

And keep it safe and sound.

“I am a linendraper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said :

And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnished with our own,

Which is both bright and clear."

Each bottle had a curling ear,

Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side,

To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be

Equipped from top to toe, His long red coat, well brushed and neat,

He manfully did throw.

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allowed
To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,

With caution and good heco.

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Whence straight he came with hat and

wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear,

Each comely in its kind.

But not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more,

And made him faster run.

He held them up, and in his turn

Thus showed his ready wit:
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.

" But let me scrape the dirt away

That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may

Be in a hungry case.'

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy's horse right glad to miss

The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen upon the road,

Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry:

[man!" "Stop thief! stop thief !-a highway

Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way

Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike-gates again

Flew open in short space;
The tollmen thinking, as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

Said John, “It is my wedding day,

And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton,

And I should dine at Ware."

So turning to his horse, he said,

"I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here,

You shall go back for mine."

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up

He did again get down.

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast,

For which he paid full dear; For while he spake, a braying ass

Did sing most loud and clear;

Now let us sing long live the King,

And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might,

As he had done before.



Away went Gilpin, and away

Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first,

For why ?-they were too big.

UNLESS a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to


He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare;
Affects indeed a most humane concern
That men, if gently tutored, will not learn;
That mulish folly, not to be reclaimed
By softer methods, must be made ashamed ;
But(I might instance in St. Patrick's Dean)*
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.
Most satirists are indeed a public scourge;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge;
Their acrid iemper turns, as soon as

stirred, The milk of their good purpose all to curd. Their zeal begotten, as their works re

hearse, By lean despair upon an empty purse, The wild assassins start into the street, Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. No skill in swordmanship, however just, Can be secure against a madman's thrust; And even virtue, so unfairly matched, Although immortal, may be pricked or

scratched. When scandal has new minted an old lie, Or taxed invention for a fresh supply, 'Tis called a satire, and the world appears Gathering around it with erected ears: A thousand names are tossed into the crowd,

[aloud, Some whispered softly, and some twanged Just as the sapience of an author's brain Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. Strange! how the frequent interjected dash Quickens a market, and helps off the trash; The important letters that include the rest Serve as a key to those that are supprest; Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, The world is charmed, and Scrib escapes

the law. So when the cold damp shades of night

prevail, Worms may be caught by either head or Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, They meet with little pity, no redress; Plunged in the stream, they lodge upon the

mud, Food for the famished rovers of the flood.

Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame, He sought the jewel in his neighbour's

shame; Perhaps—whatever end he might pursue, The cause of virtue could not be his view. At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes ; The turns are quick, the polished points

surprise, But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,

(alarms. That, while they please, possess us with So have I seen (and hastened to the sight On all the wings of holiday delight), Where stands that monument of ancient

power, Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, Guns, halberds, swords and pistols, great

and small, In starry forms disposed upon the wall: We wonder, as we gazing stand below, That brass and steel should make so fine a show;

(skill, But though we praise the exact designer's Account them implements of mischief still.


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REBELLION is my theme all day;

I only wish 't would come (As who knows but perhaps it may?)

A little nearer home. Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight

On t' other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right,

But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court,

That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,

Who bravely breaks the most.
But oh! for him my fancy culls

The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls

Your house about your ears. Such civil broils are my delight,

Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright,

And that a rope must cure them. A rope! I wish we patriots had

Such strings for all who need 'emWhat? hang a man for going mad!

Then farewell British freedom.

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All zeal for a reform that gives offence To peace and charity is mere pretence: A bold remark, but which, if well applied, Would humble many a towering poet's

pride. Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit, And had no other play-place for his wit;


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