On a Janitor of Pembroke College,
Here lies old Ben, late Porter of Pem: Coll:
Who dropp'd down dead, singing tit fal der rol.
A man of parts Superlatively great,
Yet mark, how mean, how grov'lling was Ben's fate;
For, with parts gifted, Fortune made him drudge
And blacken shoes, who should have been a judge.
Hard task indeed, tho' such has been the case
With thousands, myriads of the human race;
Many like him have felt the scourge of fate,
Now crown'd with glory in some happier state.
But sure if merit is to genius due,
This praise, old Stockford, we must give to you;
That never shoes by blacking shone more bright,
Than those you clean'd, if seen by candle light;
Yet, sans lamb's black, or patent german cake,
With spittle only, you made shoes opaque,
Then without brush, you gloss'd them with your wig,
And if they did not shine, you car'd not of a fig.
Your spittle after death you could not leave,
Case why your wife and children so much grieve,
For had it run, like water, from a spring
A patent they'd have got from George our King.
Thus try'd each art, that could his blacking save,
Old Ben here lies untimely in his grave.
Nor think that av'rice e'er possess'd his mind,
To nobler passions was his heart inclin'd,
To drinking partial, like a jovial soul,
Stock ne'er so happy was as o'er his bowl;
He then would warble like that Bird of Night,
Which screams from eve till the return of light.
But fate, alas! has stop'd his tuneful breath,
Who, fond of singing, sung on th' eve of death,
As crying Children Nurses sing to sleep,
He went off singing to the Stygian deep;
Nor can such thumps be us'd to give our doors,
Or those his wife gave him for following W-s
Like claps of thunder, when the tempest lowers,
Not e'en the din of her incessant clack,
Or curtain lectures, now allure him back.
No noise can rouse him, till that fatal day,
When the last trumpet, summons all away.
Then may he rise with Spirits as he died,
And have his taste for drinking, well supplied,
Go to some state, where Termagants can't come,
Where all are merry souls, and none are glum,
Where shoes will want not spittle or lamb's black,
Where rivers flow with brandy, rum, and rack,
Where he may laugh, sing, smoak, and drink his grog
And be, as he was here, a Jolly Dog.
ROBERT LOWNDES, Esq. of Palterton,
To a Friend of his,
When Bulls ferocious breathe their morning growl,
Their hungry tale impatient Greyhounds howl,
And Phoebus darting o'er my half-shut eyes
The happy reign of magic sleep denies,
I to my parlour haste, where anxious wait
Two duteous Sons, props of my widow'd state;
Whose chat and laughter crown the sober board,
While gen'rous Cows their frugal meal afford;
Whence, cloth remov'd, we eagerly prepare
With Dart and Smart, to course the nimble Hare,
Towards rosy health with cheerful footsteps bend,
And the gay mind from ev'ry care defend.
Forgetful that poor Puss's cares remain,
How short her thread of life, how deeply felt her pain.
The greatest Gen'rals greatest Coursers make,
For in the field both battle order take,
And by their Aides de Camp along the line,
To various signals, various acts assign,
When to advance in file,or backwards to incline.
With cavalry I form the centre rank,
Whilst lighter infantry compose each flank,
Make waving hands a signal to reprove
Such raw recruits as in disorder move,
For Coursing Science disapproves of sounds
Tho' more the noise, the merrier with hounds.
With diff'rent claims to merit both appear,
This charms the eye, that captivates the ear.
Whilst now with measur'd pace we range the fields,
Try what the fallow, what the stubble yields,
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