AN

ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE,

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word→
From those who spoke her praise,

The needy seldom pass'd 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 wond'rous winning; And never follow'd wicked ways,

Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and sattins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;

She never slumber'd 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 follow'd her,-
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and fin'ry 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 liv'd a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

AN

ELE GY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of ev'ry sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wond'rous 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 ev'ry day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

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 his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighb'ring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To ev'ry christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew'd the rogues they lied,

The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desir'd 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 sav'd! without thinking on asses.'

EDINBURGH, 1753.