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TT^ID you erer hear of Captain Wattle? -lL^ He wasallforlove,aiul a little for the bottle^ Wc know not, though pains we have ta'cn to inquire, If gunpowder he invented, or the Thames set on

fire;
If to him was the centre of gravity known,
The longitude, or the philosopher's stone;
Or whether he studied from Bacon or Boyle,
Copernicus, Locke, Katterfelto, or Hoyle;
But this we have learnt, with great labour and pai n,
That he loved Miss Roc, and she lov'd him again.

Than sweet Miss Roe none ever look'd fiercer,
She had but one eye, but that one was a piercer.
We know not, for certainty, her education,
If she wrote, mended stockings, or settled the

nation;
At cards, if she lik'd whist and swabbers, or voles,
Or, at dinner, lov'd pig, or a steak on the coals;
VV het her most of the Sappho she was, or Thalestris,
Or i f dancing was taught her by Hopkins or Vestris;
But, for your satisfaction, thisgood news weobtniu,
That she lov'd Captain Wattle, and he lov'd her

again.

When wedded, he became lord and master, depend ou't;

He had but one leg, but he'd a foot at the end on't,

Which, of government when she would fain hold the bridle,

He took special caution, should never lie idle: 1 3 So,

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With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,

As the sunshine or rain may prevail; With a small spot of ground, for the use of the spade too.

And a barn, for the use of the flail:
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow, I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Or what honours may wait him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast may ray cot be completely Secur'd by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon mc more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill; And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

Willi a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends I will share what to-day may afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, Which I've worn for three score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: But my tace in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And,with smiles,count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.

TO

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WITH lowly suit and plaintive ditty,
I call the tender mind to pity:
My friends are goue, my heart is beating,
And chilling poverty's my lot;

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