His waistcoat, and ftockings, and breeches were white;

His cap had a new cherry riband to tye't,

5

The maids to the doors and the balconies ran,
And faid, Lack a-day! he's a proper young man,
But as from the windows the ladies he spy'd,
Like a beau in the box, he bow'd low on each

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fide; And when his laft fpeech the loud hawkers did cry, He swore from his cart, it was all a damn'd lie. The hangman for pardon fell down on his knee ;-› Tom gave him a kick in the guts for his fee: Then faid, I muft fpeak to the people a little, But I'll fee you all damn'd before I will whittle ‡. My honeft friend Wild ||, may he longhold his place, He lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, Nor flip this occafion to follow your trade; My confcience is clear, and my fpirits are calm, And thus I go off without pray'r-book or pfalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would flinch.

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On cutting down the old Thorn at MARKET

A

HILL *.

Written in the year 1727.

T Market-hill, as well appears
By chronicle of ancient date,

There ftood for many a hundred years
A fpacious thorn before the gate,

A cant word for confeffing at the gallows.

Jonathan Wild, the noted thief-catcher, under-keeper of Newgate, who was hanged for receiving stolen goods.

A village near the feat of Sir Arthur Achefon, where the Dean

fometimes made a long visit,

Hither came every village-maid,

And on the boughs her garland hung, And here, beneath the fpreading fhade, Secure from fatyrs fat and fung.

Sir Archibald + that val'rous knight,
Then lord of all the fruitful plain,
Would come to liften with delight,
For he was fond of rural ftrain.

(Sir Archibald, whofe fav'rite name Shall ftand for ages on record,

By Scottish bards of higheft fame,

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Wife Hawthornden and Stirling's Lord .)

But time with iron teeth I ween,

Has canker'd all its branches round ;

No fruit or bloffom to be feen,

Its head reclining tow'rds the ground.

This aged, fickly, faplefs thorn,

Which muft, alas! no longer stand, . Behold the cruel Dean in fcorn

Cuts down with facrilegious hand.

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Dame nature, when fhe faw the blow.
Aftonish'd gave a dreadful fhriek ;

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And mother Tellus trembled fo,
She scarce recover'd in a week.

The fylvan pow'rs with fear perplex'd,
In prudence and compaffion fent,

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(For none could tell whofe turn was next) Sad omens of the dire even.

Sir Archibald Achefon, Secretary of State for Scotland. Drummond of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for their poetry.

The

The magpye, lighting on the stock,
Stood chatt'ting with inceffant din;
And with her beak gave many a knock,

To rouse and warn the nymph within.

The owl forefaw, in penfive mood,

The ruin of her ancient feat;
And fled in hafte with all her brood
To feek a more fecure retreat.

Laft trotted forth the gentle fwine,
To ease her ich against the stump,
And difmally was heard to whine,

All as the fcrubb'd her meafly rum.

The nymph who dwells in ev'ry tree,
(If all be true that poets chant),
Condemn'd by fate's fupreme decree,
Muft die with her exiring plant.

Thus when the gentle Spina found

The thorn committed to her care, Receiv'd its laft and deadly wound,

She fled and vanifh'd into air.

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But from the root a difmal groan

Firft iffuing, ftruck the murd'rers ears;

And in a fhrill revengeful tone

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This prophecy he trembling hears.

"Thou chief contriver of my fall,
"Relentless Dean, to mischief born;
My kindred oft thine hide fhall gall,

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66

Thy gown and caflock oft be torn.

"And thy confed'rate dame, who brags "That the condemn'd me to the fire, “Shall rent her petticoats to rags,

"And wound her legs with ev'ry bri'r.

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"Not

"Nor thou, Lord Arthur, fhalt efcape: "To thee I often call'd in vain,

Against that affaffin in crape;

"Yet thou could ft tamely fee me flain.

"Nor when I felt the dreadful blow,

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"Or chid the Dean, or pinch'd thy fpoufe; 70 "Since you could fee me treated so, me

' (An old retainer to your house).

"May that fell Dean, by whofe command "Was form'd this Machi'vellian plot,

"Not leave a thistle on thy land;

"Then who will own thee for a Scot?

"Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,

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Through all thy empire I forefee, "To tear thy hedges join in leagues:

"Sworn to revenge my thorn and me.

"And thou the wretch ordain'd by fate,
"Neal Gahagan, Hibernian clown,
"With hatchet blunter than thy pate
"To hack my hallow'd timber down,

"When thou fufpended high in air,

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Dy'ft on a more ignoble tree,

"(For thou shalt fteal thy landlord's mare), "Then, bloody caitiff, think on me."

* Sir Arthur Acheson.

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80

85

זא פא

On the five LADIES at SOT'S HOLE *. with the DOCTOR + at their head,

N. B. The Ladies treated the Doctor.

Sent as from an officer in the army.

Written in the year 1728.

Air ladies, number five,

With little Tom contrive

To feaft on ale and fteaks.

While he fits by a-grinning,
To fee you fafe in Sot's-hole,

Set up with greazy linen,

And neither mugs nor pots whole.

Alas! I never thought

A prieft would please your palate;

Befides, I'll hold a groat,

He'll put you in a ballad:

An alehoufe in Dublin famous for beef- fteaks.
Dr. Thomas Sheridan.

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And