The punch goes round, and they are dull

And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins,

6 Come, neighbours, we must wag.'The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one,

'A rarer man than you

In pulpit none shall hear;

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.'

O why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine?

A kick, that scarce would move a horse,
May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home;
"Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.

THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.

1791.

Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.

The worth of each had been complete,
Had both alike been mild:

But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oftener than she smiled.

And in her humour, when she frown'd,
Would raise her voice and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.

The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,
And never proved severe.

To poets of renown in song

The nymphs referr'd the cause,

Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong, And gave misplaced applause.

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,

The flippant and the scold,

And though she changed her mood so oft, That failing left untold.

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,
Or so resolved to err-

In short, the charms her sister had
They lavish'd all on her.

Then thus the god whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,

Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all :

'Since thus ye have combined,' he said, 'My favourite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid, With June's undoubted right,

'The Minx, shall, for your folly's sake, Still prove herself a shrew,

Shall make your scribbling fingers ake, And pinch your noses blue.'

L L

ON A MISCHIEVOUS BULL,

WHICH THE OWNER OF HIM SOLD AT THE AUTHOR'S INSTANCE.

Go-thou art all unfit to share
The pleasures of this place
With such as its old tenants are,
Creatures of gentler race.

The squirrel here his hoard provides,
Aware of wintry storms,
And woodpeckers explore the sides
Of rugged oaks for worms;

The sheep here smooths the knotted thorn
With frictions of her fleece;
And here I wander eve and morn,

Like her, a friend to peace.

Ah-I could pity thee exiled
From this secure retreat-
I would not lose it to be styled
The happiest of the great.

But thou canst taste no calm delight;
Thy pleasure is to show

Thy magnanimity in fight,
Thy prowess-therefore go.

I care not whether east or north,
So I no more may find thee;

The angry Muse thus sings thee forth,
And claps the gate behind thee.

ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,

THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789.

WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne,
George took his seat again,

By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign.

Then, Loyalty, with all his lamps
New-trimm'd, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.

Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares,
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,

To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,

And all the banners been unfurl'd

That heralds e'er design'd;