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His waistcoat, and stockings, and breeches were white;
5 His cap bad a new cherry riband to tye't, The maids to the doors and the balconies ran, And said, 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
fide; And when his last speech 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 him a kick in the guts for his fee : Then
said, I must fpeak to the people a little, 15 But I'll see you all damn'd before I will whittle , My honest friend Wild l, may he longhold his place, Hé lengthen'd my life with a whole year of grace. Take courage, dear comrades, and be not afraid, Nor slip this occasion to follow your trade ; 20 My conscience is clear, and my fpirits are calm, And thus I go off without pray'r-book or psalm; Then follow the practice of clever Tom Clinch, Who hung like a hero, and never would finch.
GsVaagsP/22 ssta Vasty22esta On cutting down the old Thorn at MARKET-
Written in the year 1727.
T Market-hill, as well appears **
By chronicle of ancient date, There stood for many a hundred years
A spacious thorn before the gate, 1 A cant word for confessing 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 Acheson, where the Dean sometimes made a long visit,
Hither came every village-maid,
And on the boughs her garland hung, And here, beneath the spreading shade,
Secure from fatyrs fat and fung.
Sir Archibald + that val'rous knight,
Then lord of all the fruitful plain, Would come to listen with delight,
For he was fond of rural strain.
(Sir Archibald, whose fav’rite name
Shall stand for ages on record, By Scottish bards of highest fame,
Wise Hawthornden and Stirling's Lord I.)
But time with iron teeth I ween,
Has canker'd all its branches round; No fruit or blossom to be seen,
Its head reclining tow'rds the ground.
This aged, fickly, fapless thorn,
Which must, alas! no longer stand, . Behold the cruel Dean in scorn
Cuts down with facrilegious hand,
Dame nature, when she saw the blow,
Astonish'd gave a dreadful shriek ; And mother Tellus trembled fo,
She scarce recover'd in a week.
The fylvan pow’rs with fear perplex’d,
In prudence and compassion fent, (For none could tell whose turn was next)
Sad omens of the dire even.
+ Sir Archibald Acheson, Secretary of State for Scotland. I Drummoal of Hawthornden, and Sir William Alexander, Earl of Stirling, who were both friends to Sir Archibald, and famous for
The magpye, lighting on the stock,
Stood chatt'ring with incessant din ; And with her beak gave many a knock,
To rouse and warn the nymph within.
The owl forefaw, in pensive mood,
The ruin of her ancient feat ;
To seek a more secure retreat.
Laft trotted forth the gentle swine,
To eafe her ich against the stump, And dilmally was heard to whine,
All as the scrubb’d her measly 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 coinmitted to her care, Receiv'd its last and deadly wound,
She fled and vanish'd into air,
But from the root a dismal groan
First ifsuing, struck the murd'rers ears ; And in a fhrill revengeful tone
This prophecy he trembling hears.
66 Thou chief contriver of
Thy gown and casiock oft be torn.
“ And thy confed'rate dame, who brags
“ That she condemn’d me to the fire, • Shall rent her petticoats to rags,
« And wound her legs with ev'ry bri'r.
“ Nor thou, Lord Arthur *, fhalt escape:
" To thee I often call'd in vain,
* Nor when I felt the dreadful blow,
could see treated so,
“ Was form'd this Machi'vellian plot,
75 “ Then who will own thee for a Scot?
Pigs and fanatics, cows and teagues,
Through all thy empire I forelee, “ 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 6 To hack
hallow'd timber down,
" When thou suspended high in air,
Dy’st on a more ignoble tree,
" Then, bloody caitiff, think on me."
On the five Ladies at Sot's HOLE *. with
che Doctor | at their head,
While he fits by a-grinning,
with greazy linen,
A priest would please your palate ; Besides, I'll hold a groat,
He'll put you in a ballad :
* Analehoue in Dublin famous for beef steaks, t Dr. Thomas Sheridan,