Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation,
To counterfeit my sibilation.”.

THE BAG-WIG AND THE TOBACCO. The snake enrag'd, reply'd, “Know, madam,

PIPE.
I date my charter down from Adam;
Nor can I, since I bear the bell,

FABLE XVI.
E'er imitate where I excell.

A BAG-wig of a jauntee air. Had any other creature dar'd

Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Once to aver, what you've averrid,

Loaded with powder and perfume,
I might have been more fierce and fervent, Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room :
But you're a goose, -and so your servant.” Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
* Truce with your folly and your pride," A black tobacco-pipe was laid ;
The warbling Philomela cry'd;

And with its vapours far and near, # Since no more animals we find

Outstunk the essence of Monsieur; In nature of the hissing kind,

At which its rage, the thing of h air, You should be friends with one another,

Thus, bristling up, began declare. Nay, kind as brother is to brother.

“Bak'd dirt! that with intrusion rude For know, thou pattern of abuse,

Break'st in upon my solitude, Thou snake art but a crawling goose;

And whose offensive breath defiles And thou dull dabbler in each lake,

The air for forty thousand miles-
Art nothing but a feather'd snake."

Avaunt-pollution's in thy touch-..
O barb'rous Englishman! horrid Dutch!
I cannot bear it-Here, Sue, Nan,

Go call the maid to call the man,
MRS. ABIGAIL AND THE DUMB And bid him come without delay,
WAITER.

To take this odious pipe away.

Hideous! sure some one smok'd thee, friend, PABLE XV.

Reversely, at his t'other end.

Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng With frowning brow, and aspect low'ring,

Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
As Abigail one day was scow'ring,

A most unnatural combination,
Prom chair to chair she past along,
Without soliloquy or song;

Enough to mar all perspiration

Monstrous ! again-twou'd vex a saint ! Content, in humdrum mood, t'adjust

Susan, the drops or else I faint !" Her matters to disperse the dust.

The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul) Thus plodded on the sullen fair,

Raising himself upon his bole, 'Till a durnb-waiter claim'd her care;

In smoke, like oracle of old, She then in rage, with shrill salute,

Did thus his sentiments unfold. Bespoke the inoffensive mute:

“Why, what's the matter, Goodman Swagger, " Thou stupid tool of vapourish asses,

Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger? With thy brown shelves for pots and glasses ; Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox) Thou foreign whirligig, for whom

Ridiculous and heterodox. Us honest folks must quit the room;

'Twas better for the English nation And, like young misses at a christ'ning;

Before such scoundrels came in fashion, Are forc'd to be content with list'ning;

When none sought hair in realms unknown, Though thou'rt a fav'rite of my master's,

But every blockhead bore his own. 'll set thee gadding on thy castors."

Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe, This said—with many a rough attack,

Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe, She scrubb'd him 'till she made him crack;

Who, with my cloud-compelling aid, Insulted stronger still and stronger,

Help our plantations and our trade, The poor damb thing could hold no longer –

And am, when sober and when mellow, “ Thon drab, born mops and brooms to dandle,

An upright, downright, honest fellow. Thou haberdasher of small scandal,

Though fools, like you, may think me rough, Factor of family abuse,

And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff, Retailer of domestic news;

Yet your contempt I glad receive, My lord, as soon as I appear,

'Tis all the fame that you can give: Confines thee in thy proper sphere;

None finery or fopp’ry prize, Or else, at ev'ry place of call,

But they who've something to disguise; The chandler's shop, or cobler's stall,

For simple nature bates abuse,
Or ale-house, where (for petty tales,

And plainness is the dress of Use.”
Gin, beer, and ale are constant vails)
Each word at table that was spoke,
Wou'd soon become the public joke,
And cheerful innocent converse,

CÁRE AND GENEROSITY.
To scandal warp'd-or something worse.

FABLE XVII.
Whene'er my master I attend,
Preely his mind he can unbend ;

Old Care, with industry and art,
But when such praters fill my place,
Then nothing should be said-but grace.”

At length so well had play'd his part;
He heap'd up such an ample store,
That av'rice could not sigh for more:

Ten thousand Aocks his shepherd told,

To have a curious trick in store, His coffers overflow'd with gold ;

Which never was perform'd before. The land all round him was his own.

Thro' all the town this soon got air, With corn his crowded granaries groan.

And the whole house was like a fair; In short, so vast his charge and gain,

But soon his entry as he made, That to possess them was a pain :

Without a prompter, or parade, With happiness oppress'd he lies,

'Twas all expectance, all suspense, And much too prudent to be wise.

And silence gagg'd the audience. Near him there liv'l a beauteous maid,

He hid his head behind his wig, With all the charms of youth array'd;

And with such truth took off a pig, Good, amiable, sincere and free,

All swore'twas serious, and no joke, Her name was Generosity.

For doubtless underneath his cloak, 'Twas hers the largess to bestow

He had conceal'd some granting elf, On rich and poor, on friend and foe.

Or, was a real hog himself. Her doors to all were open'd wide,

A search was made, no pig was found 'The pilgrim there might safe abide :

With thund'ring claps the seats resound, For th’hungry and the thirsty crew,

And pit, and box, and galleries roar, The bread she broke, the drink she drew; With-O rare! bravo ! and encore. There Sickness laid her aching head,

Old Roger Groase, a country clowi), And there Distress cou'd find a bed.

Who yet knew something of the town, Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,

Beheld the mimic and his whim, Diffus'd she blessings round the land:

And on the morrow challeng'd him, Her gifts and glory lasted long,

Declaring to each beau and bunter, And numerous was th' accepting throng.

That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter. At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,

The morrow came the crowd was greaterAnd Fortune fed, and Ruin came,

But prejudice and rank ill-nature She found ber riches at an end,

Usurp'd the miods of inen and wenches, And that she had not made one friend.

Who came to biss, and break the benches.
All curs'd her for not giving more,

The mimic took his usual station,
Nor thought on what she'd done before; And squeak'd with general approbation.
She wept, she rav’d, she tore her hair,

“ Again, encore ! encore !” they cryWhen lo ! to comfort her came Care.-

'Twas quite the thing—'twas very high : And cry'd, “ My dear, if you will join

Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket, Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;

A real pig beneath his jacketAll will be well-you shall have store,

Then forth he came-and with his nail And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.

He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. Tho' I restraiu your bouinteous heart,

The tortur'd pig from out his tirroat, You still shall act the generous part.”

Produc'd the genuipe nat’ral note. The bridal came-great was the feast,

All bellow'd out-'twas very sad !
And good the pudding and the priest';

Sure never stuff was half so bad !
The bride in nine moons brought him forth “ That like a pig!"'—each cry'd in scoff,
A little maid of matchless worth :

“Pshaw! Nonsense! blockhead! Off! Off! Off!" Her face was mix'd of care and glee,

The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse They coristen'd her Economy ;

Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house. And styled her fair Discretion's queen,

“ Soft ye, a word before I go," The mistress of the golden mean,

Quoth honest Hodge-and, stooping low
Now Generosity confin'd,

Pro uc'd the pig, and thus aloud
Perfectly easy in her mind;
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,

Bespoke the stupid partial croud:

“ Behold, and learn from this poor creature, Nor wishes to be free from Care.

How much you critics know of Nature.”

9

THE PIG.
FABLE XVIII.

โง every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession,
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.-
A certain baron on a day,
Having a mind to show away,
Invited all the wits and wags,
Foot, Massey, Shutter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the choice spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a genius who profess'd

BALLADS.
SWEET WILLIAM.

BALLAD I.
By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,
Where the woodbine and jess’mine their boughs

interweave,
“ Fair Flora,” I cry'd, “ to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's

hair."
She brought me the villet that grows on the bill,
The vale-dwelling lily, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love,
She brought me, his faith and his truth to dis-
The undying myrtle, and ever-green lay : [play,

But why these to me, who've his constancy And sing with more than nsual glee known

To Nancy, who was born for me. And Billy has laurels enough of his own. Tell the blithe Graces as they bound The next was the gift that I could not contemn, Luxuriant in the buxom round; For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem: They're not more elegantly free, of the dear nuptial tie they stvod emblems confest, Than Nancy, who was born for me. So I kiss'd 'em, and press’d 'em quite close to Tell royal Venus, though she rove, my breast.

The queen of the immortal grove; She brought me a sun-flow'r—"This, fair one's That she must share her golden fee your due;

With Nancy, who was born for me.
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:” Tell Pallas, though the Athenian school,
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd l'il run,

And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the Sun. On her to place the palm agree,

Tis Nancy's, who was born for ine.
Tell spotless Dian, though she range,

The regent of the up-laud grange,
THE LASS WITH THE GOLDEN

In chastity she yields to thee,
LOCKS.

0, Nancy, who wast born for me.
BALLAD II.

Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove, N. o more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,

With all the pow'rs of life and love, Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me be- That I'd disdain to loreathe or be, fore;

If Nancy was not born for me,
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold :
Pl throw down my pipe, and neglect all my
flocks,

THE DECISION.
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.
Thougho'er her white furchead thegilt tresses flow,

BALLAD IV. Like the rays of the Sun on a billock of snow;

My Florjo, wildest of his sex, Such painters of old drew the qucen of the fair,

(Who sure the veriest saint would vex) Tis the taste of the ancients, 'tis classical hair :

From beauty roves to beauty; And though witlings may scoff, and though rail

Yet, though abroad the wanton roam, lery mocks,

Wbene'er he deigus to stay at home, Yet I'll sing to my lass with the golden locks.

He always minds his duty. To live and to love, to conrerse and be froe,

Something to every charming she,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:

In thonghtless prodigality,
Axay go the hours in kisses and rhyme,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time ; To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,

He's granting stilland granting; Afig for his dials, his watches and clocks,

And every madain, every miss; He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.

Yet I find nothing wanting. Than tre swan in the brook she's more dear to my If hap!y I his will displease,

sight, Her mien is more stately, her brcast is more white, Tempestuous as th’autumnal seas

He foams and rages ever; Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,

But when he ceases from hisire, They are fit for the language or labour of lore;

I cry, At the Park in the Mali, at the play in the box,

“Such spirit, and such fire, My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.

Is surely wond'rous clever.” Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they fow,

I ne'er want reason to complain ; Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my But sweet is pleasure after pain, woe;

[soft pain;

And every joy grows greater. She shall ease my find heart, and shall south my I should not like him half so well,

Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell, While thousands of rivals are sigbing in vain ;

If I cou'd make him better. Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like

the fox, While I have the lass with the golden locky.

THE TALKATIVE FAIR.

ON MY WIFE'S BIRTH-D.4Y.

BALLAD V.

BALLAD III.
Tis Nancy's birth-day-raise your strains,
Yenymors of the Parnassian plains,

From morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease.

ONE OF THE CHICHESTER GRACES.

Freedom of air alone is giv'n,

And am as raging Barry hot. To aggravate, nor sooth my grief,

True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove, To view th’immensely.distant Heav'n,

But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
My Dearest prospect of relief.

Are other names for Harriot.
Ye factious members who oppose,

And tire both houses with your prose,
TO MISS * * * *

Though never can you carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,

And without bribery convince, Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.

Had ye the voice of Harriot.

You of the music common weal,
BALLAD X.

Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Ye hills that overlook the plains,

Cantata, air, or ariet ; Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,

You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score, Where Nature's hand by Art is check's,

And sing, compose, and play no more, And Taste herself is architect ;

If once you heard my Harriot. Ye fallows gray, ye forests brown,

Were there a wretch who dar'd essay, And seas that the rast prospect crown,

Such wond'rous sweetness to betray, Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,

I'd call him an Iscariot ; Nor can she one idea more !"

But her e'en satire can't annoy, I said when dearest of her kind

So strictly chaste, but kindly coy, (Her form, the picture of her mind)

Is fair angelic Harriot.
Chloris approach'd-The landscape flew! While sultans, emperors, and kings,
All nature vanish'd from my view!

(Mean appetite of carthly things) She seem'd all nature to comprize,

In all the waste of war riot; Her lips! her beauteous breasts ! her eyes! Love's softer duel be my aim, Tbat rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,

Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame, With liquid, languid, living fire !

Are center'd all in Harriot. But then—her voice !-bow fram'd t' endear! I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs The music of tbe gods to hear !

That haunt love's ever blushing bow'rs, Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,

So sweet a nymph to marry ought : So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense !

Then may I hug her silken yoke, Pallas with Venus play'd her part,

And give the last, the final stroke,
To rob me of an honest heart;

Taccomplish lovely Harriot,
Prudence and passion jointly strove,
And reason was th'ally of love.
Ah me! thuu sweet, delicious maid,

TO JENNY GRAY,
From whence shall I solicit aid ?

BALLAD XU.
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.

Bring, Phoebus, from Parnassian bow'rs, Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine !

A chaplet of poetic flowers, To save me, the dear task be thine.

That far outbloom the May; Though conquest be the woman's care,

Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free, The angel's glory is to spare.

And all the Muses heraldry,

To blazon Jenny Gray.
Observe yon almond's rich perfume,

Presenting Spring with early bloom,
LOVELY HARRIOT.

In ruddy tints how gay!

Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
A CRAMBO BALLAD.

With such a blithsome, buxom air,
• BALLAD XI.

Blooms lovely Jenny Gray. Great Phoebus in his vast career,

The merry, chirping, plumy throng, Who forms the self succeeding year,

The bushes and the twigs among Thron'd in his amber chariot ;

That pipe the sylvan lay,
Sees not an object half so bright,

All hush'd at her delightful voice
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light, In silent ecstacy rejoice,
As dear delicious Harriot.

And study Jenny Gray.
Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,

Ye balmy odour-breathing gales, Whose paise not beats, whose blood not burns, That lightly sweep the green rob’d vales,

Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot; And in each rose-bush play; I scorn their philosophic strife,

I know you all, you're arrant cheats, And study nature from the life,

And steal your more than natural sweets, (Where most she shines) in Harriot.

From lovely Jenny Gray. When she admits another wooer,

Pomona and that goddess bright, I rare like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,

The florist's and the maids delight,