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Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe But now her wealth and fin'ry fled,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Her hangers-on cut short all;
Quebec in vain sball teach our breasts to glow, The doctors found, when she was dead
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

For Kent-street well may say, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth moreYet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead! She had not dy'd to day.

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.


A SONNET. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. Weeping, murmuring, complaining, Tuis tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,

Lost to ev'ry gay delight; May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.

Myra, too sincere for feigniog, What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,

Fears th' approaching bridal night. That leads to truth through pleasure's flow'ry Yet why impair thy bright perfection, way!

Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; Had Myra follow'd my direction,
And Heav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid. She long had wanted ca'use of fear,
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his words shall rise,

FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE While converts think their poet in the skies.


EPITAPA ON EDWARD PURDON . Tag wretch, condemnn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,

And erry pang that rends the heart,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

Bids expectation rise,
He led such a damnable life in this world-
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

Hope, like the glimın'ring taper's lighty

Adorns and cheers the way,
And still, as darker grows the night,

Emits a brighter ray.

Good people all, with one accord,

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver, Lament for Madam Blaize,

Still importunate and vain, Who never wanted a good word

To former joys recurring ever, From those who spoke her praise.

And turning all the past to pain ; The needy seldom pass'd her door,

Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, And always found her kind;

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! She freely lent to all the poor

And he who wants each other blessing, Who left a pledge behind.

In thee must ever find a foe. She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wondrous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways Unless when she was sinning.

A PROLOGUE, At church, in silks and satins new,

With hoop of monstrous size;

She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.


Iler love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;

The king himself has follow'd her
When she has walk'd before.

WHAT! no way left to shun thinglorious stage,

And save from infamy my sinking age! 1 This gentleman was educated at Trinity Col- Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, lege, Dublin ; but having wasted his patrimony, What in the name of dotage drives me here? he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employinent, be obtained his discharge, ? This translation was first printed in one of and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He our author's earliest works, The present State translated Voltaire's Henriade.

of Learning in Europe, 12mo. 1759.

A time there was, when glory was my guide, My pride forbids it ever should be said,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
C'naw'd by pow'r, and nnappall'd by fear, That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear; Or ever thought that jumping was a jest,
But this vile hour disperses all my store,

[Takes off his mask,
And all my hoard of honour is no more; Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
For, ah! ioo partial to my life's decline, Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth :
Cesar persuades, submission must be mine; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
Him I obey, whom Heav'n himself obeys, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;

Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
No more my titles shall my children tell, Whose only plot it is to break our noses ;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well; Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
This day beyond its term niy fate extends, And from above the dangling deities.
For life is ended when our honour ends.

And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do?

No I will act—I'll vindicate the stage: PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. ZOBEIDE.

Of! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns !

The mad’ning monarch revels in my veins. In these bold times, when learning's sons ex

Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : plore

“Give me another horse! bind up my wounds ! The distant climates, and the savage shore ;

soft'twas but a dream.” (treating ; When wise astronomers to India steer,

Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no reAnd quit for Venus many a brighter here;

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 'Twas thus that Ásop's stag, a creature blameless, Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling; Yet something vajn, like one that shall be nameOur bard into the general spirit enters,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood, [less, And fits his little frigate for adventures.

And cavill'd at his image in the flood. With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden, “ The deuce confound,” he cries, " these drum. He this way sterrs his course, in hopes of trad

stick shanks, ing

They neither have my gratitude nor thanks ; Yet ere he lands bas order'd me before,

They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! To make an observation on the shore.

But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head. Where are we driven ? our reck’ning sure is lost !

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! This seems a rocky and a dang’rous coast. My horns ! -I'm told horns are the fashion now." Lord! what a sultry climate am I under! Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd ! to his view, Yon ill-fureboding cloud seems big with thunder: Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen

[Upper gallery.

[nind. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've Hoicks ! hark forward! came thund'ring from beseen 'em

(Pit. He bounds aloft, ontstrips the fleeting wind : Here trees of stately size and billing turtles in He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways; 'em

[Balconies. He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage. At length his silly head, so priz'd before, And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground: Is tanght his former folly to deplore;

[Tasting them.

Whilst bis strong limbs conspire to set him free, Th' inhabitants are cannibals I fear.

And at one bound he saves himself, like me. I heard a hissing there are serpents here!

[Taking a jump through the stage door. 0, there the people are—best keep my distance: Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; Our ship’s well stor’d-in' yonder creek we've

ÉPILOGUE laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader.

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. This is his first adventure, lend him aid,

WhatI five long acts--and all to make us wiser ! And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought Had she consulted me, she should have made

Our authoress, sure, has wanted an adviser. from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war,

Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; Wbat, no reply to promises so ample?

Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage -I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;

[thinking. EPILOGUE,

Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES,

What if I give a masquerade?-1 will. IS THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. But how ? aye, there's the rub ! (pausing)-I've Hond! prompter, holdl a word before your non

got my cue:

The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.

you, you. [To Foxes, Pis, and Gallery,

sense ;







Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! | Besides, a singer in a comic set !
False wils, false wives, false virgins, and false Excuse me, ma'am; I know the etiquette.

spouses !
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, What if we leave it to the house?
Patriots, in party-colour'd suits, that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turnd of fifty, try once more The house !-Agreed.
To raise a fame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Agreed.
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, And she, whose party's largest, sball proceed.
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the wo- And first, I hope, you'll readily agree
man ;

l've all the critics and the wits for me. The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, They, Iam sure, will answer my coinmands; And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure. Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands : Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care What, no return? I find too late, I fear, Is to seem ev'ry thing but what they are.

That modern judges seldom enter here. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, 1 fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; I'm for a diff'rent set-Old men, whose trade is Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

parade, Looking, as who should say, damme! who's Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smil. afraid? (Mimicking.

ing, Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am

Still thus address the fair, with voice brguiling: You'll find his lionship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous in debate,

Turn my fairest, turn, if ever Perhaps to vulgar eyes bestrides the state;

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye: Yet when he deigns his real shape t'assuine,

Pity take on your swain so clever, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.

Who without your aid must die. Yon patriot, tuo, who presses on your sight,

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu, And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white,

Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho. If with a bribe bis candour you attack,

Da cape. He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in

MRS. BULKLEY. black !

Let all the old pay homage to your merit : Yon critic, too_but whither do I run ?

Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. If I proceed, our bard will be undone !

Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too: Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain;
Do you spare her, and I'll for ouce spare you. Who take a trip to Paris once a year,

To dress, and look like aukward Frenchmen here,
Lend me your hands.–O fatal news to tell,

'Their bands are only lent to the Heinelle! EPILOGUE

Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed !

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as be

'Tweed. ginning to speak. Then enter Niss Catley, Where are the cheels? Ah, ah, I well discem who stands full before her, and curtsies to the The smiling looks of each bewitching baime: audience.

A bonny young lad is my Jockey.




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I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, Hold, ma'arn, your pardon. What's your bu- and be unco merry when you are but gay; siness here?

When you witb your bagpipes are ready to play,

My voice shall be ready to carol away, The epilogue.

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jocker,

With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. The epilogue ?


Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Yes, the epilogue, my dear.

Make but of all your fortune ode va toute :

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, Sure you mistake, ma'am. The epilogue I bring “I hold the odds-Done, done, with you, with it.

Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, [you."

“My lord-your lordship misconceives the case: Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. Doctors, who answer every misfortuner,

“ I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :" Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Suspend your conversation while I sing. Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

AIR-BALEINAMONY. Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epilogue

MISS CATLEY, of singing,

Ye brave Irish lads, bark away to the crack, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack,






For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, / Yes, he's far gone :--and yet some pity fix,
When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang The English laws forbid to punish lanatics '.

For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:

Your hands and your voices for me.

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?


SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOMOAnd that our friendship may remain unbroken,

What if we leave the epilogue unspoken?

Thursday the 20th of February 1772.



The following may more properly be termed a And now, with late repentance,

compilation than a poem. It was prepared Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence:

for the composer in little more than two days; Condeinn the stubborn fool who can't submit

and may therefore rather be considered as an To thrive by flatt'ry, though he starves by wit. industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.


In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was

adapted in a period of time equally short, EPILOGUE,






There is a place, so Ariosto sings,

Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, and they, who lose their senses, there may find Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. them.

The music prepared and adapted by Signor But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?

The Moon, says he :--but I affirm, the Stage :
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lupar and our mimic world agree.

Poth sbine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
That mortals visit both to find their senses. And waken every note of woe !
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, When truth and virtue reach the skies,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits,

'Tis ours to weep the want below.
The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and gues a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing, When truth and virtue, &c.
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The praise attending pomp and power,
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, The incense given to kings,
Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw,

Are but the trappings of an hour,
Cornes here to saunter, having made his bets, Mere transitory things.
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The base bestow them: but the good agree
The Mohawk too—with angry phrases stor'd,

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.-
As 'Dam'me, sir,” and,“ sir, I wear a sword;"

But when to pomp and power are join'd
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,

An equal dignity of mind:
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. When titles are the smallest claim:
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But find no sense--for they had none to lose.

But aid the power of doing good, Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,

Then all their trophies last—and flattery turns Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;

to fame.
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, or coronet, or garter,

"This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Gold How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? smith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); No high-life scenes, no sentiment :—the creature but for what comedy it was intended is not reStill stoops among the low to copy nature, membered.





Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

Teach us to estimate what all must soffer: How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, Even now reproach and faction mourn,

As a safe inn where weary travellers, And, wondering how their rage was born,

When they have journey'd thro' a world of cares, Request to be forgiven !

May put off life and be at rest for ever. Alas! they never had thy hate:

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy s Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,

bles, Thy towering wind self-centred stood,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity. Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.

The preparation is the executioner. In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, A thousand gifts would fortune send :

And is a terrour only at a distance: In vain, to drive thee from the right,

For as the line of life conducts me on A thousand sorrows urged thy end :

To death's great court, the prospect seems mort Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience

fair, stood, And purchased strength from its increasing load. To take us in when we have drain'd the cup

'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, AMiction still is virtue's opportunity!

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat, Virtue on herself relying,

Where all the humble, all the great, Every passion busb'd to rest,

Promiscuously recline: Loses every pain of dying

Where wildly huddled to the eye, In the hopes of being blest.

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, Every added pang she snffers,

May every bliss be thine. Some increasing good bestows,

And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, And every shock that malice offers,

Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, Only rocks her to repose.

May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,

May peace that claim'd while here thy Farques Virtue on herself relying, &c.

'love, to

May blissful endless peace be thine abore. Only rocks her to repose.

BY A WOMAN-AMOROSO. Yet ah! what terrours frown'd upon her fate,

Lovely lasting Peace below, Death with its formidable band,

Comforter of every woe, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,

Heavenly born and bred on high, Determined took their stapd.

To crown the favourites of the sky; Nor did the cruel ravagers design

Lovely lasting Peace appear, To finish all their efforts at a blow :

This world itself, if thou art here, But, mischievously slow,

Is once again with Eden blest,
They rob'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.--

Aud man contains it in his breast.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour

Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, Death's growing pow'r,

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : And trembled as he frown'd.

Celestial-like her bounty fell, As helpless friends who view from shore

Where modest want and patient sorrow drell, The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, Want pass'd for merit at her door, While winds and waves their wishes cross: Unseen the modest were supplied, They stood while hope and comfort fail,

Her constant pity fed the poor, Not to assist, but to bewail

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 'The inevitable loss.

And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy Relentless tyrant, at thy call

shrine, How do the good, the virtuous fall!

And art exhausts profusion round,
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, The tribute of a tear be mine,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay: When vice my dart and scythe supply,

And calm Religion shall repair How great a king of terrours I !

To dwell a weeping hermit there. If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree Tremble ye mortals at my rage !

To blend their virtues while they think of thee. Fall, round me fall, ye little things, Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings |

CHORUS- POMPOSO. If virtue fail her counsel sage,

Let us, let all the world agree, Tremble, ye murtals, at my rage!

To profit by resembling thee,




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