The look demure, or pouting lip;
Th' amphibious creature apes.
But hark! he pours his liquid throat,
And thrills Mingotti's treble note
To the soft tinklings of the wire,
Whilst the rapt eye is taught to roll,
As the sweet air enchants his soul
That trembles on his lyre.
With critic eye the pug can trace
The Dresden stitch; if Mechlin lace,
Or Brussel's, bobbin-work excel;
Knows the true bloom of Hyson tea;
But nauseates filthy ratafia,
And citron's horrid smell.
In gentle rills his waters fall;
He never spouts against the wall,
Like low bred porters, filthy bears;
He shudders at the indecent joke,
When Ladies frown or Parsons smoke
Or the rude Colonel swears.
The toilet's labours now he tries
The patch adjusts; with languid eyes
The mirror's magic power surveys;
Now heaves the sigh, the head reclines;
Smiles, simpers, hums an air, or whines,
As Betty clasps his stays.
Dear Billy, where's the mighty art
To play the ape's, or monkey's part;
To screw the face, or flirt the fan?
Disdain such mincing, fribble tricks,
Nor mimic thus thy sister sex,
But try to act the Man.
Hark! the loud-tuning horn bids the sportsman
And the hounds woo him forth to the lawn; The huntsman proclaims that the morning is fair, And Aurora, with red, streaks the dawn.
With pleasure he harks to the heart-soothing cheer,
Shakes Morpheus and slumber, away;
While joyful he starts, and with speed doth appear The foremost to welcome the day.
With the horn's jolly clangour he quickens the chace,
And fills all the vale with his joys;
While pleasure, full glowing, enlivens his face,
And the hounds in full concert rejoice.
From the sportsman, ye drones, you may learn how to live,
Exempted from pain or disease;
He'll shew, that the fields and the meadows will
That health, which you barter for ease.
SOME Women take delight in dress:
And some in cards take pleasure;
While others place their happiness
In heaping hoards of treasure;
some delight to kiss, Their hidden charms unfolding; But, all mistake the soverign bliss
There's no such joy as scOLDING.
The instant that I ope my eyes,
Adieu all day to silence;
Before my neighbours they can rise,
They hear my tongue a mile hence :
When at the board I take my seat,
'Tis one continued riot;
I eat, and SCOLD, and SCOLD, and eat,
My clack, is never quiet.
Too fat, too lean, too hot, too cold,
I ever am complaining,
Too raw, too roast, too young, too old,
Each guest at table paining:
Let it be fowl, or flesh, or fish,
Though of my own providing,
I still find fault with every dish,
Still every servant chiding.
But, when to bed, I go at night,
I surely fall a weeping;
For then I lose my great delight,
How can I scOLD when sleeping?
But this my pain doth mitigate,
And soon disperses sorrow,
Although to-night it be too late,
I'll pay it off to-morrow.
THE LAWYER'S PRAYER.
Ordain'd to tread the thorny ground
Where few, I fear, are faithful found,
Mine be the conscience void of blame,
The upright heart, the spotless name;
The tribute of the widow's pray'r,
The righted orphan's grateful tear;
To virtue, and her friends, a friend ;
Still may my voice the weak defend :
Ne'er may my prostituted tongue
Protect th' oppressor in his wrong,
Nor wrest the spirit of the laws,
To sanctify the villain's cause,
Let others, with unsparing hand,
Scatter their poison through the land;
Inflame dissension, kindle strife,
And strew with ills the path of life;
On such, her gifts let Fortune show'r,
Add wealth to wealth, and pow'r to pow'r ;
On me may fav'ring Heav'n bestow
That peace which good men only know;
The joy of joys, by few possess'd,
Th' eternal sunshine of the breast.
Pow'r, fame, and riches I resign,
The praise of honesty be mine;
That friends may weep, the worthy sigh,
And poor men bless me when I die.
TO THE GALLIC EAGLE.
"Fame's favourite minion!
The theme of her story;
How quailed is thy pinion
How sullied its glory :
Where blood flow'd like water,
Exulting it bore thee!
Destruction and slaughter
Behind and before thee.
Where glory was blushing
Thy flight was the fleetest ;
Where death's sleep was hushing,
Thy slumber was sweetest.
When broad swords were clashing
Thy cry was the loudest ;
When deep they were gashing
Thy plume was the proudest.
But triumph is over;
No longer victorious, No more shalt thou hover, Destructively glorious!
Far from the battle's shock
Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chained to the rugged rock ;
Waves warring round thee.
Instead of the trumpet's sound,
Sea-birds are shrieking;
Hoarse on thy ramparts' bound,
Billows are breaking.
The standards which led thee
Are trampled and torn now;
The flatteries which fed thee,
Are turned into scorn now.
For ensigns unfurling,
Like sun beams in brightness,
Are crested waves curling
Like snow wreaths in whiteness.
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