DID you ever hear of Captain Wattle?

He was all for love, and a little for the bottle, We know not, though pains we have ta'en to in

quire,

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 pain,
That he loved Miss Roe, 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;
Whether most of the Sappho she was, or Thalestris,
Or if dancing was taught her by Hopkins or Vestris ;
But, for your satisfaction, this good news we obtain,
That she lov'd Captain Wattle, and he lov'd her
again.

When wedded, he became lord and master, depend on'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 :

R 3

So,

So, like most married folks, 'twas my plague, and 【my chicken,

And sometimes a-kissing,and sometimes a-kicking, Then, for comfort, a cordial she'd now and then

try,

Alternately piping or bunging her eye;

And these facts of this couple does the history contain,

When he kick'd Mrs. Wattle, she kick'd him again,

MY friend is the man I would copy through

life;

He harbours no envy, he causés no strife:
No murmurs escape him, though fortune bears

hard;

Content is his portion, and peace his reward.
Still happy in his station,
He minds his occupation :
Nor heeds the snares,
Nor knows the cares,
That vice and folly bring:
Daily, working wearily,
Nightly, singing cheerily ;

Dear to him his wife, his home, his country and his king.

His heart is enlarg'd, though his fortune be scant; Hle lessens his little for others that want:

Tho' his children'sdear claims on his industry press, He has something to spare for the child of distress. He seeks no idle squabble,

He joins no thoughtless rabble;

To

To clear his way,
From day to day,

His honest views extend;
When he speaks, 'tis verily,

When he siniles, 'tis merrily;

Dear to him his sport, his toil, his honour, and his friend.

How charming to find, in his humble retreat,
That bliss so much sought, so unknown to the great;
His wife only anxious her fondness to prove→→
The playful endearments of infantine love..
Relaxing from his labours,
Amid his welcome neighbours,
With plain regale,

With jest and tale,

The happy hero see!

No vain schemes confounding him,

All his joys surrounding him,

Dear he holds his native land, its laws and liberty.

IN

N the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining,

May my fate no less fortunate be,

Than a snug elbow-chair, can afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea:

With an ambling pad poney to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow,

And, blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward, with hope, for to-morrow.

With

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 my cot be completely

Secur'd by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly

By the sound of a murmuring rill;

And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With 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 cov'r

ing,

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 face 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.

ΤΟ

T

O Comus's Hall we choice spirits invite, The moments to pass in a round of delight; With a song and a bumper their humour unlock, Norcare for old Time though he point to the clock: But toast ev'ry beauty kind-hearted and free, For such, such alone, are the lasses for me. Then come, come away, no longer delay; Mirth, friendship, and wine, shall their charms all display.

Jolly Bacchus with Comus, will come at our call,
And kindly attend us at Comus's Hall;

No care will disturb us with maxims abroad,
But pleasure be present, and wit point each word;
That happiness may ev'ry moment prolong,
With a joke, and a laugh, and the heart-lifting

song.

Apollo with music the whole shall inspire,
And the music repeat what each heart can desire;
While grateful oblations we make to the skies,
And the incense of rapture alike shall arise:
Ally'd to no party, we fear no controul,
But cheerfully circle the bottle and bowl.

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

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