If to old Lory's you repair,

To tipple off the fortnight's care,

Still Tom shall steal upon you there,

And prompt each wish;

Tom, that would smoke like a lord may'r,

Drink like a fish.

When Shakspeare fills each pate so fine,
And Dick repeats the pompous line,
You'll mouth once more my verse divine;

My slipshod muse

Shall make the ale as strong as wine,

And sweets infuse.

How often have we met the moon

With vapours bland, and pipe in tune,

Ready with Ariel to commune,

Or Caliban:

Not caring half a taylor's croon

For dev'l or man!

No more shall I so deeply muse
O'er pamphlet bare, or dusty news;

No more antiquities peruse

With craving eye

Good lack! no more destroy my shoes,

Cap'ring for joy.

No more love-sonnets sweetly sing,
To Hudibrastics chime the string,
Or elegies right baleful bring

For Davie dead:

Alas! 'tis quite another thing:

All frolic's fled.

But friendship still shall fresh remain ;
And when I'm o'er the envious main,
Tell all my old tricks o'er again

With smiling glee:

"Heav'ns!" will ye cry in ranting strain, Who'll equal thee?

'Killeigh is now, alack! deserted: Her once-lov'd poet's quite departed; Full cruel wert thou and hard-hearted

To serve her so.'

Partners of all my life, though parted,

My soul's with you.

Though riches fill my chest, though Glory
Swell up my heart, I'm no such tory
To gain up all those things before ye,

Nor lend a mite;

Whate'er I be, 'tis the old story,

And all is right.

Should I in future years be able

To take an arm-chair at your table,

Then you wont think this boast a fable,

But good stout reason:

You'll find me, though but poor, right stable;

Ne'er out of season.

And now God's luck to this fair meeting!
And may we have another greeting;

When bairns and wives, the tribe completing,

Shall hug each other:

While I, of noble actions treating,

Hail each a brother!

EPISTLE TO J. C. WALKER, ESQ.
While in Italy.

WHILE safe on Latium's classic shore,
Beneath her cloudless skies you rove,
The Mantuan's mouldering cot explore,
Or Tully's desolated grove;

Oh! let my artless muse, unknown

To all the charms thy ancients knew,
Awake the soft pipe's liquid tone;
A song, if not sublime, yet true.

"Tis thine, with fond research to trace
The shrinking river's latent vein ;
From dust to dig th' imperial face,
Or raise to light the lofty strain.
Then, like the bee, full-fraught return,
Instruction pour from Wisdom's urn,
And bid the Alban graces smile

On lost Juverna's barren isle.*

This prediction was fulfill'd in the year 1799, when Mr. Walker's Historical Memoir on Italian Tragedy appeared.

Methinks a visionary band

Of palm-crown'd shades attend thy path; With vigour arm thy curious hand, And lull the sleeping serpent's wrath.

Old Tiber on his yellow stream

(His blue stole floating in the wind) Awakes from his long-lengthen'd dream, And whispers to thy tranced mind :

Recounts what former deeds were done,
What poets sung, what warriors fought;
Embalms with tears each godlike son,
And dwells upon the noble thought:

Recounts the fair historic grace

That told each martial tale to fame,
That wont each hidden fault to trace,
And falters at his Livy's name.

Ob, couldst thou from some gentle shade
Retrieve the lost, the priceless page,

The depths of elder Time invade,
And brighten blank Oblivion's age!

The wish is vain: what taste can do,
What elegance with sense combin'd,
Thy learned toil shall bring to view,

And nourish the abstracted mind.