This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing:

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;

In which all modern bardsb agree,

Being each as great a thief as he:

But e'en this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance.

Our modern bards! why what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

60

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD

DOG.1

OOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,—
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

10

1 First printed in the Vicar of Wakefield, c. xvii. 1766; this is an imitation of the French chanson La Galisse.-See the Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize, p. 96.

In the Citizen of the World, vol. ii. lett. Ixix. is a paper on the "Epidemic Terror, the dread of Mad Dogs, which now prevails; the whole nation is now actually groaning under the malignity of its influence."

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
Christian eye;

To every
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied

The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

20

30

J

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

OHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers

To tell them the reason why asses had

ears?

"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses."

Edinburgh, 1753.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.1

HEN lovely Woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.

1 First printed in the Vicar of Wakefield, c. xxiv.

MM

A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S

BEDCHAMBER.1

ZHERE the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can

W

pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's
black champaign,

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug;
A window, patched with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly showed 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, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave prince William showed his lampblack

face:

10

The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five cracked teacups dressed the chimney board;
A nightcap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!

20

1 These lines first appeared in the Citizen of the World, vol. i. letter xxx. A variation of them appears in the Deserted Village, see p. 35; see also the Memoir, p. li.