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The Linnet, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Thrush, .
And ev'ry warbler of the bush;
I sing the mimic Magpye’s fame,
In wicker cage well fed and tame.

In Fleet-ftreet dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradesman, nam'd Tom Moore ;
Gen'rous and open as the day,
But passionately fond of play ;
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box, rattling o'er the board ;
Bewitching hazard is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.

In basket-prison hung on high,
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A fav’rite Magpye fees the play,
And mimics ev'ry word they say;
Lord! how he nicks us! Tom Moore cries,
Lord! how he nicks us! Mag replies;
Tom throws, and eyes the glitt'ring store,
And, as he throws, exclaims, Tom Moore !
Tom Moore! the mimic bird replies;
Th’ astonish'd gamefters lift their eyes,
And, wond'ring, stare and look around,

As doubtful whence proceeds the found.

This dislipated life, of course,
Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse ;
Nor pray’rs nor promises prevail
To keep him from a dreary jail. í my

And now, between each heart-felt figh,
Tom oft exclaims, Bad Company!
Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate,
Exclaims, from out his wicker grate,
Bad Company! Bad Company!
Then views poor Tom with curious eye';
And cheers his master's wretched hours,
By this display of 'mimic pow'rs.
Th’ imprison'd bird, though much caress'd, .!
Is still by anxious care opprefs’d;
In silence mourns his cruel fare,
And oft explores his prison-gate.

Obferve, through life you'll always find
A fellow feeling makes us kind.
So Tom resolves immediately
To give poor Mag his liberty;


cage, and with a figh Takes one fond look, and lets him fly.

Now Mag, once more with freedom blessid,
Looks round to find a place of rest;
To Temple Gardens wings his way,
There perches on a neighĎ’ring spray.

The Gardner now, with busy cares,
A curious feed for grass prepares ;
Yet, spite of all his toil and pain,
The hungry birds devour the grain.

A curious net he does prepare,
And lightly spreads the wily snare;
The feather'd plund'rers come in vicw,
And Mag soon joins the thievish crew.
The watchful Gard'ner now ftands by,
With nimble hand and wary eye;
The birds begin their foľn repast,
- The flying net secures them falta

[ ]
The vengeful clown, now fill'd with ire,
Does to a neighb’ring shed retire,
And, having first fecur'd the doors
And windows, next the net explores.

Now, in revenge for plunder'd seed,
Each felon he resolves shall bleed;
Then twists their little necks around,
And casts them breathless on the ground,

Mag, who with man was us’d to herd,
Knew something more than common bird ;
He therefore watch'd with anxious care,
And slipt himself from out the snare,
Then, perch'd on nail remote from ground,
Observes how deaths are dealt around,
Lord! how he nicks us! Maggy cries;
Th' astonish'd Gard'ner lift his eyes,
With fal’tring voice, and panting breath,
Exclaims “ Who's there?"-AII fill as death.
His murd'rous work he does resume,
And cafts his


around the room
With caution, and, at length, doth spy
The Magpye perch'd on nail so high!
The wond'ring clown, from what he heard,
Believes him something more than bird;
With fear impress’d, does now retreat
Towards the door, with trembling feet,
Then says=" Thy name I do implore ?"*
The ready bird replies—Tom Moore.
" O Lord !” the frighten'd clown replies,
With hair erect and staring eyes :
Half-op'ning then the hovel door,
He asks the bird one question more:
. What brought you here ?” with quick reply,
Sly Mag rejoins-Bad Company.

Out jumps'the Gardiner in a fright,
And runs away with all his might;
And as he runs, impress’d with dread,
Exclaims, “ The Devil's in the shed!”

The wond'rous tale a Bencher hears,
And fooths the man, and quells his fears ;

Gets Mag secur'd in wicker cage, 2 ?
Once more to spend his little rage :
In Temple-Hall now hung on high, is part
Mag oft exclaims--Bad Company Itigi sja


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FRIEND of my youthful days, for ever paft,

, Ah! art thou stretch'd amid the straw at laft? These

eyes, with tears, thy dying looks devour. Bless’d would I soften thy hard bed of death,

And with new floods the fount of life supply: Yes, Peter, bless’d would I prolong thy breath,

Renew each nerve, and cheer thy beamless eye. But wherefore wish? Thy lot is that of alles

Thy friend, who mourns, muft yield to Nature's law; Like thee must fink; and o'er each dark’ning ball

Will Death's cold hand th' eternal curtain draw. Piteous thou liftest up thy feeble head,

And mark'st me dimly, with a dumb adieu ; And thus amid thy hopeless looks I read,

“ Faint is thy servant, and his moments few. “ With thee no more the hills and vales I tread;

Those times, so happy, are for ever o’er: “ Ah! why should Fate, fo cruel, cut our thread,

“ And part a friendship that must meet no more? “ O! when these languid lids are fut by Fate,

“ O! let in peace these aged limbs be laid 66 'Mid that loy'd field which saw us oft of late,

“ Beneath our fav’rite willow's ample fhade ! “ And if my Master chance to wander nigh,

“ Beside the spot where Peter's bones repose, “ Let your poor servant claim one little ligh;

“ Grant this and bless'd these for

ever close."

Yes, thou poor Spirit) yes--thy with is minema

Yes, be thy grave beneath the Willow's gloomThere shall the sod, the greeneft sod, be thine ;

And there the brightex flow'r of spring fhall bloom. Oft to the field as Health my footstep draws,

Thy turf shall surely catch thy Master's eye ; There on thy sleep of death shall Friendship pause,

Dwell on past days, and leave thee with a figh.
Sweet is remembrance of our youthful hours,

When Innocence upon our actions (mild!
What though Ambition fcorn'd our humble pow'rs,

Thou a wild cub, and I a cub as wild:
Pleas'd will I tell how oft we us'd to roam;
How oft we wander'd at the

peep Till Night had wrapp'd the world

in spectred gloom, And Silence liften'd to the beetle's horn. Thy victories will I recount with joy,

The various trophies by thy fleetness won; And boast that I, thy playfellow, a boy,

Beheld the feats by namesake Peter done. Yes, yes, (for grief must yield at times to glee, Amidst


friends I oft will give our tale; When, lo! those friends will rush thy fod to see,

And call thy peaceful region-Peter's Vale.

of morn,



With Additions by GUION.

An aged mortal, plaintive, beggʻd his way ; And spurn’d by grandeur, when he made request,

Thus, at the door of worth, was heard to say: Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to our door;

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