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JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears.
Ant please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd, without thinking on asses.' Edinburgh, 1753.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
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
A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!
SEND you a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle in his admirable comedy of She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adieu for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE CO
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.'
H me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally and combat the ruiner.
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
MIDST 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 the 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.
THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
The transitory breath of fame below :