O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court.
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster-row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly, cringing wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors :
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.

88

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

He in his turn finds imitators :
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure

start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
While thy sad fate extorts
heart-wrung

tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though

dead;

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

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 bailiff 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 sanded 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 shew'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!

89

A NEW SIMILE.

(IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

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 forget 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 bard's 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 souls to Tartarus with his rod,