EPILOGUE, Spoken by MR WILSON, at the Theatre-Royal, in the Character of an Edinburgh Buck. YE who oft finish care in Lethe's cup; Last night, when potent draughts of mellow wine Did sober reason into wit refine; When lusty Bacchus had contrived to drain First, we approached a seeming sober dame, Preceded by a lanthorn's pallid flame, Borne by a liveryed puppy's servile hand, cried, And all the guard, with "Sieze ta rogue,” replied. As, in a war, there's nothing judged so right As a concerted and prudential flight: So we, from guard and scandal to be freed, Next, we approached the bounds of George's Square: Blest place!-No watch, no constables, come there. Now, had they borrowed Argus' eyes, who saw us, All was made dark and desolate as chaos; Lamps tumbled after lamps, and lost their lustres, Like doomsday, when the stars shall fall in clusters. Let Fancy paint what dazzling glory grew From crystal gems, when Phoebus came in view : Each shattered orb ten thousand fragments strews, And a new sun in every fragment shews. Hear then, my Bucks! how drunken fate decreed us For a nocturnal visit to the Meadows, And how we, valorous champions! durst engage O deed unequalled!-both the Bridge and Cage, The rage of perilous winters which had stood ;— This 'gainst the wind, and that against the flood: But what nor wind, nor flood, nor heaven could bend e'er, We tumbled down, my Bucks! and made surrender. What are your far-famed warriors to us, 'Bout whom historians make such mighty fuss! Posterity may think it was uncommon That Troy should be demolished for a woman; But ours your ten years sieges will excel, Our cause is slighter than a dame's betrothing; For all these mighty feats have sprung fromnothing. THE AUTHOR'S LIFE. My life is like the flowing stream That on its watery bosom sail, And wanders, 'midst Elysian groves, May I, when drooping days decline, ON THE AUTHOR'S INTENTION OF GOING TO SEA. FORTUNE and Bob, e'er since his birth, Could never yet agree; She fairly kicked him from the earth, MY LAST WILL. WHILE Sober folks, in humble prose, His moveables in doggerel verse ; And, fearing death my blood will fast chill, Then, wit ye me to have made o'er To her I give and grant the freedom |