(In the manner of Siwft.)
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
'Till reading, I forgot what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious:
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length.
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed.
A just comparison-proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air: And here my simile unites, For, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand: By classic authors term'd Caduceus, And highly fam'd for several uses. To wit most wondrously endu'd, No poppy water half so good:
For, let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before.
That quickly they begin to snore :
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell
Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep.
This difference only: as the god
Drove soul to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it-Stealing
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox,
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
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 sav'd, without thinking on asses.'
Edinburgh, 1753.
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
Around from all the neighbouring streets,
The wondering 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 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 shew'd the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
SIB,
I send you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of 'She Stoops to Conquer;' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sang it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called 'The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate care.
I am, Sir,
SONG,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
6 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.'
АH me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me,
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover,
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
DESCRIPTION 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 champaign,
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 sandy 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, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night- -a stocking all the day!
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
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 raptures from his works shall rise.
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
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