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May the voyage of Life,
Free from tempest and strife, Prove as calm as a smooth water coasting. But should some sudden squall, incidental to all
Rouse up reason to reef ev'ry sail, boys,
Of the compass we steer,
'Tis as sure as the light
That the joys of the night Will ne'er shrink from the morning's reflection. And when rest or refreshment succeeds work
or play, That enjoyment from each it may still flow, May true Friendship's hand lead us on by the
way, And true Love share the rest of our pillow.
But, blow high, or blow low,
Let it rain, frecze, or snow,
The lamb newly shorn
Shews the blast may be borne, Should our station on sea or on earth be :
And, as poor Robin Red-breast will chirp on
Almost stripp'd by the frost of each feather, May a Conscience as clear as the sun at noon
WRITTEN BY DR. SCOTT.
Come, oh come, delightful guest !
Child of tranquil ease and pleasure; Ever blessing, ever blest,
Here diffuse thy choicest treasure. Come, sweet Mirth, and bring with thee, Sportive Song and merry glee; But ah, sweet maid, all playful tricks remove,
Let offensive sounds invade the ear, But such as bashful Beauty may approve,
And Modesty, without a blush, can hear. Then this blooming radiant throng,
Shall applaud thy festive measures; Darting joyous smiles along,
Giving and receiving pleasures : What sweet raptures fire the mind When beauty's charms, and music are combin'd!
THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE.
ALTERED FROM A DUET.
1 Could a Man be secure That his life would endure,
As of old for a thousand long year,
The more we'll call each hour a treasure; And, since Time will not stay, We'll seize upon the present day,
And with good deeds will fill the measure.
IX. A DEHORTATION FROM DRINKING.
BY A LATE EMINENT PHYSICIAN.
From the London Magazine for September 1746.
1 Pass by a tavern door, my son,
This sacred truth write on thy heart: 'Tis easier company to shun,
Than at a pint it is to part.
And that pint lights a pipe;
And drink it out e'er night,
From vinous sulphurs stor’d within;
When the fire takes life's magazine.
An apoplexy kills as sure
As cannon ball; and oft as soon;
Than murdering chain-shot from a gun.
r a treasur
ar, I the medie
Yet boldly face a pottle pot?
But drinking is the surer shot.
How many fools about this town, ,
Do quaff and laugh away their time? And nightly knock each other down,
With Claret clubs of no-grape wine!
As Solomon describeth right,
When drunk beyond our nature's bounds;
And leaves her welt'ring in her wounds.
Such were the rules old BAYNARD gave
To one with whom he could be free; Better you'll from no doctor have,
Besides—they come without a fee.
SAY! what are the pleasures which Wine can
impart? Can it pluck out the Arrows of Scorn from the
heart? Erase from the bosom the Image of Care? Or furnish a balm for the Soul of Despair?