Heard ye the gang of Fielding say, [way. Sir John*, at last we've found their haunt, To desperation driven by hungry want, Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their Ye towers of Newgate! London's lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith's + fame, And spare the grinning barber's chuckle head. "Rascals! we tread ye under foot, (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun): Our beards we pull out by the root; (The web is wove; your work is done)." 'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me uncurl'd, undinner'd, here to mourn. But, oh! what happy scenes of pure delight, 'Not frizz'd and fritter'd, pinn'd and roll'd, And gorgeous dames and judges old Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line; Sir John Fielding, the active police magistrate of that day. + Coe's father, the blacksmith of Cambridge. What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air! What crowds of little angels round her play! Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh hear! A scene like this might animate thy clay. Simplicity now, soaring as she sings, [wings. Waves in the eye of Heaven her Quaker-colour'd 'No more toupees are seen That mock at Alpine height, And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound; All now are vanish'd quite. No tongs or torturing pin, But every head is trimm'd quite snug around: Like boys of the cathedral choir, Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear, Each simpler generation blooms more fair, Vain puppy boy! think'st thou yon essenced cloud, With ringlets shining like the morning dew! The different dooms our fates assign: To wear what Heaven bestow'd be mine.' He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height, Quick through the frozen street he ran in shabby plight. LORD ERSKINE. MODERN MARRIAGE. DORINDA and her spouse were join'd, Fine clothes, fine diamonds, and fine lace, In decent time by Hunter's art Now education's care employs The lovely babes improve apace By dear ma'amselle's prodigious care; Miss gabbles French with pert grimace, And master learns to swear. 'Sweet innocents!' the servants cry, 'So natural he, and she so wild; Laud, nurse, do humour them-for why? "Twere sin to snub a child.' Time runs My God!'-Dorinda cries, 'How monstrously the girl is grown! She has more meaning in her eyes Than half the girls in town.' VOL. V. L L Now teachers throng; miss dances, sings, Lapdogs and parrots paints, good lack! Mobs to the milliners for fashions, Ma'amselle to miss's hand conveys Away to Scottish land they post, Her frolic over, to her cost, Miss is a wretch for life. Master meanwhile advances fast Travels no doubt by modern rules Returns in all the dernier goût Of Brussels point and Paris clothes, Then hey! at Dissipation's call Now comes a wife, the stale pretence, He drains his stewards, racks his farms, And every morn his levee swarms With swindlers and with Jews. The guinea lost that was his last "This through my brain!'-'tis done; 'tis pass'd; He fires-he falls-he dies! CUMBERLAND. RONDEAU. By two black eyes my heart was won: By two black eyes! To Celia with my suit I came ; By two black eyes. ANONYMOUS. |