But ah! my love, beware of ill-tim'd rage,
Nor leap from twelve foot windows o'er a stage,
Thy legs may suffer, that would grieve my heart,
Yet we have nought to pay the healing art.
The sons of Peon now, of bus'ness full,

Can scarce attend to heal a rich man's skull:
And can they, can they, when in wealth secure,
Attend at all the pennyless and poor?

Ah, no! though bucks have whilom fill'd their jaws,
Yet now they leave them, in a better cause.
Ingratitude, thou constant bane of macs!
And can such brazen gizzards dwell in Quacks ?
If parliament delights thee, and a coach,
Study the well-turn'd eloquence of Roach.*
Harangue, and stamp, and then harangue again,
And bray the loudest of the long-ear'd train ;
Mingle farrago-like your Irish Latin,
And stoutly stun the ear of patriot Grattan.
This, this, will rise you higher than a steeple,
And make you chief defender of the people;
But sure the people, laughing in their sleeves,
Each action mock, for ev'ry action grieves ;
You rise Demosthenes in self-esteem,

But if you slumber, does your country dream?

Sir Boyle Roach.

No, I repent my counsel-Still be cool,
Nor let the nation totter on a fool :

Full many a babbling Atlas, when grown older, Has wept the weight of countries on his shoulder; Full many a statesman had his "back y-bent," His country's porter, paid at cent. per cent. No, love, I wish your blund'ring country well, For Jews have batten'd there, as bankers tell. No, love, you shall not help the fall of stocks, Nor tempt again the cormorant and fox; They yet have work, while H- has a pound, When he is hang'd at last, they may be drown'd; Then shall their pepper'd quids sublímely hail, And belles no more the luckless man assail. Thus when stout chanticleer, with ruby crest, Adorns the stake, and bares his glowing breast, The hens and chickens pensive stalk around, Now peck a grain, then shudder at his wound, Their plumage ruffle when they see his blood, Scream loud, and shake their tails besprent with mud; But when through clarion beak he breathes his last, They yield to fate, and quite forget the past, Run flaunting through the channel in a row, T'attract the notice of some dunghill beau, And in most melancholy moans they sigh Their widow'd wand'rings to the cock on high!

Thus have I labour'd for thy good, and laid
Thy last kind letter underneath my head.
But oh! unhappy hunger! rats have tore
Thy lovely scrawl, and rent my night-cap more.
Conceive my posture; in one hand I smother
Thy precious scraps, my night-cap in the other;
One eye
adverse beholds a rotten chink,

My left orb squints upon a jug of drink ;

Ev'n now a dog my loaded pockets maul'd;
Gods! how I shrunk, I trembled, and I bawl'd-
Moses came in as rough as any bear;

I thrust your precious paper G— knows where ;
1 blush'd my crime-and now I date this scrawl
From the black cov'ring of a garret wall;

On broken chair I hang my doleful harp,

And the wind strikes the string with breezes sharp!
Oh! cou'dst thou see me now with icy nose,
Dripping with dew, and crimson as the rose,
My tatter'd petticoat around my head,
Mice my companions, and the floor my bed,
My head-dress damag'd with unusual flaws,
And my
red tresses interwove with straws.

Yes, gen'rous youth, you'd fetch the cheering cake,

And pawn your only breeches for my sake;

The racy rum would raise my soul to joy,
And make me lovelier for my charming boy.

Yet let me suffer all that I can feel,

If thou canst 'scape the gamester's goary steel; This scrawl shall tell your feats when I am dead, And still alive perplex thy anxious head; Perhaps some bard, by tender feelings mov'd, May tell that once you liv'd, and once I lov'd.

SONG.

COLD lies that form beneath the sod,

Where all the graces shone;

Cold too that breast, a languid load,

Which virtue mark'd her own.

Ah! never shall that sprightly eye,
Illume life's dreary gloom;

To silence charm that anguish'd sigh,

That now bewails thy tomb.

Ah! never shall thy balmy lip,

Speak comfort to my soul,

In ecstacy my troubles steep,

And ev'ry grief control.

Ah! never shall that heav'nly breast,

Support my aching head ;

-Grim horror's now thy baleful guest,

Thy train, the ghastly dead!

DOCTOR FAUSTUS'S PANEGYRIC.

HAIL, Lord of boluses anointed;
Of cholic'd guts, and bones disjointed;
Vicegerent here, by death appointed,

To work his slaves,

Penning each mittimus so pointed,

To glut the graves.

So skilful, if the patient's water,

B' applied to your nostrils seven months a'ter, You'll ferret ev'ry son and daughter,

'Till they're at ease,

Nimrod, that huntest after slaughter,

Like fox for geese!

Is the young squire as door-nail dead,
You clap a blister to his head,

Add clyster till his bum be red;

Ill-fated booby,

For fear of waking him, light tread,

And close the lobby.