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My little “Suckling" in the grave
Is sunk to swell the ravage,
'Twas mine to losea“ Savage."
E'en “Glover's ” works I cannot put
My frozen hands upon,
My“ Bunyan ” has been gone.
“ My“ Taylor,” too must fail,
“Goldsmith” from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."
To save my
I“ Prior” sought, but could not see
The “Hood” so late in front,
O, where was my“ Leigh Hunt"?
Yet could not “ Tickell” touch,
And surely mickle's much.
'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed,
My sorrows to excuse,
Nor even use my “Hughes."
A thing so fondly hoped ; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry,
My “Livy" has eloped.
My life is ebbing fast away;
I suffer from these shocks;
There's gray upon my locks.
'Tis “ Burton " I reply.
I see my
They still have made me slight returns,
And thus my griefs divide;
And eased my “Akenside."
Nor let my anger burn,
THE BALLAD OF BEAU BROCADE.
YEVENTEEN hundred and thirty-nine :
That was the date of this tale of mine.
First great George was buried and gone;
Those were the days of the war with Spain Porto-Bello would soon be ta’en;
Whitfield preached to the colliers grim,
Walpole talked of “a man and his price;"
Those, in fine, were the brave days when Coaches were stopped by . . . Highwaymen!
And of all the knights of the gentle trade
This they knew on the whole way down
(For timorous cits on their pilgrimage Would“ club" for a “Guard” to ride the stage;
And the Guard that rode on more than one
Down the road on a March-day fine,
Straining and creaking, with wheels awry,
Lumbering up from the Bagshot Heath,
Passengers heavily armed inside ;
Tried !—but a couple of miles away,
Tried successfully, never a doubt,
Cloak-bags rifled, and cushions ripped,
Even a Methodist hosier's wife
Highwayman's manners no less polite
Sorry to find the company poor,
Plucked them all at his ease, in short:
Sympathy! horror! and wonderment!
Hosier's wife led into the bar;
Followed the tale of the hundred-and-one
Ensign (of Bragg's) made a terrible clangor;
Robber, of course, was Beau Brocade”
Devonshire Dolly, plumb and red
Spoke it out boldly, staring hard:-. “Why didn't you shoot then, George, the Guard?"
Spoke it out bolder, seeing him mute:-
Portly John grew pale and red,
Gasped that “Dolly was surely cracked” (John was afraid of her—that's a fact !)
George the Guard grew red and pale,
“Shoot? Why-Rabbit him!-didn't he shoot ?" Muttered—“The Baggage was far too cute!!"
“Shoot? Why, he'd flashed the pan in his eye!" Muttered—"she'd pay for it by and by!"
_ Further than this made no reply.
Nor could a further reply be made
And John the Host, in his wakefullest state,
But nobody's virtue was over-nice