SEPTEMBER 13, 1759.
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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 woeSighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,Whilst 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. [Illustration: EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.[42]] Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,Who long was a booksellers’ hack;He led such a damnable life in this world,I don’t think he’ll wish to come back. FOOTNOTES: [42] Edward Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but havingwasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired ofthe army, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in thenewspapers. He translated Voltaire’s Henriade, and died in 1767. [Illustration: TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE.] In all my Enna’s beauties blest,Amidst profusion still I pine;For though she gives me up her breast,Its panting tenant is not mine. [Illustration: EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL.] This tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name,May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way!Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid;And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.Needless to him the tribute we bestow--The transitory breath of fame below;More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,While converts thank their poet in the skies. [Illustration: DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.] Where the Red Lion, flaring o’er the way,Invites each passing stranger that can pay--Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane--There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,The muse found Scroggen, stretch’d beneath a rug.A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,That dimly show’d the state in which he lay:The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;The royal game of goose was there in view,And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,And brave Prince William show’d his lamp-black face.[43]The morn was cold--he views with keen desireThe 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-board;A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay,A cap by night--a stocking all the day! FOOTNOTES: [43] The Duke of Cumberland. [Illustration: SONG FROM THE COMEDY OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”] SCENE.--_A Room in the Alehouse, “The Three Pigeons.”_ Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,With grammar, and nonsense, and learning--Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,Gives _genus_ a better discerning.Let them brag of their heathenish gods--Their Lethes, and Styxes, and Stygians;Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods:They ’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.To-roddle, to-roddle, to-rol. When methodist preachers come down,A-preaching that drinking is sinful,I’ll wager the rascals a crown,They always preach best with a skinful.But when you come down with your pence,For a slice of their scurvy religion,I’ll leave it to all men of sense--But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon.To-roddle, &c. [Illustration] Then, come, put the jorum about,And let us be merry and clever;Our hearts and our liquors are stout--Here’s the “Three Jolly Pigeons” for ever!Let some cry up woodcock or hare,Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;But of all the gay birds in the air--Here’s a health to the “Three Jolly Pigeons.”To-roddle, &c. [Illustration] [Illustration: ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER.] “This _is_ a poem! This _is_ a copy of verses!” Your mandate I got--You may all go to pot:Had your senses been right,You’d have sent before night.As I hope to be sav’d,I put off being shav’d,For I could not make bold,While the matter was cold,To meddle in suds,Or to put on my duds.So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,And Baker and his bit,And Kauffman beside,And the Jessamy[44] bride,With the rest of the crew,The Reynoldses two,Little Comedy’s[45] face,And the Captain[46] in lace.--(By the by, you may tell himI have something to sell him;Of use, I insist,When he comes to enlist.Your worships must know,That a few days agoAn order went out,For the foot-guards so stoutTo wear tails in high taste--Twelve inches at least:Now, I’ve got him a scaleTo measure each tail;To lengthen a short tail,And a long one to curtail.) Yet how can I, when vext,Thus stray from my text!Tell each other to rueYour Devonshire crew.For sending so lateTo one of my state.But ’tis Reynolds’s way,From wisdom to stray,And Angelica’s whimTo be frolick like him-- But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser,When both have been spoil’d in to-day’s _Advertiser_?[47]
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