Then, "sure's a gun" he'll find to's cost, "He reckon'd on without his host,"
And "cock-a-hoop" not mind what's lost, "Till pay-day come,"
When he must desolate the coast
"Without beat o' drum."
If he don't chance with saws, to tether
Satan's two ears, like "bird of a feather,”
He must go without "why or whether,"
To" fill the oven,'
Kick'd out, with all his goods together,
By foot" so cloven. '
I warrant, though the queer rogue tickles
His highness' taste, with flatt'ring pickles,
And ere a month, or some short week, lies,
"Claim cater cousin,
And be as great with Master Nichol's,
As "six to the dozen."
Then cease, he's snug enough" in port,"
Prince serjeant of th' infernal court,
Following his own congenial sport,
And proverbs mouthing of each sort, 'Twas "his vocation."
WHY thrills each nerve at Fancy's pictur'd woe,
At pity's tale why starts the tender breast?
Can scenes, by thought's delusive pencil drest,
Bid the full drop of pregnant anguish flow?
What cruel pow'r thus wrings my casy heart?
'Tis feeling, prophetess of distant ills,
With pensive ecstacy she poin's the dart,
In pleasing poison ting'd, that slow, but surely kills.
Oft o'er the cradled infant hath she wept,
And mark'd, with eye deprest, the woes of age;
Oft while the babe, in harmless silence slept,
She trac'd the vary'd passions, and their rage;
Wild-bursting wrath, revenge, with blood-shot
Pale jealousy, on love, with scowling brow
Still watchful fix'd, false honor's impious glow,
All sunk as yet beneath the mental trance,
Nor rous'd by fervid youth, to shake this mortal
Oft while the matron hung with fondest mirth
On him, whose truth first won her partial thought,
And all her smiling offspring throng the hearth,
Hlas feeling her funereal vision wrought;
Oft scem'd to view the baleful hearse await
The ghastly sire, the matron's widow'd weeds,
The smiling offspring snatch'd by feverish fate;
Meanwhile, fallacious grief! her tortur'd bosom
bleeds.
Ah! me, too many are our cares unfeign'd,
Too many troubles guard life's thorny way;
Yet ne'er have I of thy soft pangs complain'd,
Nor sought, with heedless haste, the giddy gay;
Beneath thy willows have I lov'd to mourn,
While stream'd the tribute tear from pity's sluice,
Still deck'd with flow'rs the hapless stranger's urn,
Sincerely sad the martyr of the Muse!
A GREAT MAN'S GREAT PORTER.
SWEET Cerberus, let dainty sonnets move thee,
So may Apollo and the Muses love thee;
Crown thy proud front with wreaths so fine;
O! let a poor, lean, hungry Orpheus dine!
In vain-no modulations charm thy breast,
Harder than brass, or bookseller, or marble;
Thou long'st to crush the muses little nest,
Lo! thou wouldst castrate ev'ry bard,
Which usage is confounded hard,
To spoil their vigour, not to make them warble.-
Some critic, felon, gave thee form,
With nails corroded, and obstetic pain,
Th' impenetrable offspring of his brain,
While printer's devils bestrode the howling storm ; Yes, caitiff, thou hast vitriol suck'd, with aquafortis,
For murd'ring songsters thy infernal sport is!
I have no golden branch, God help the while,
To make this fiend-like sybil smile;
This sybil, scatt'ring my fair leaves about,
This ghost of opposition, swift interring,
My still-born verses with an hideous shout,
And knocking genius dead as any herring.
Tygers and Russian bears would spare the darlings,
Yet thou, vile ox-cheeks, choak the pretty starlings;
The pretty starlings, wont of yore,
Amid the radiant blaze of morn to soar, Swelling their tuneful throats, their small wings flutt'ring,
Still, Cyclops, thou'rt lewd curses mutt'ring;
Still like a hell-hound, barking loud and dread;
Good hell-hound, quick chop off my tuneful head,
Or, let me enter thy enchanted hall,
For either by thy teeth, or sharper want, I fall;
Sad luck, indeed, but not uncommon !
So damme, in I rush, despite of frowns,
And parte-colour'd, bluff-cheek'd clowns;
Assurance be my guide, I die a Roman!
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