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I see you sailing both in Buchan's pot. Now storming an old woman and her cot, Who, terrified at each tremendous shape, Deem'd you two demons, ready for a rape : I see all marvelling at MʻLeod's together, On Sam's remarks on whey, and tanning leather : At Corrichatachin's the Lord knows how, I see thee, Bozzy, drunk as David's sow, And begging, with raised eyes and lengthen'd chin, Heaven not to damn thee for the deadly sin : I see, too, the stern moralist regale, And pen a Latin ode to Mrs. Thrale. I see, without a night-cap on his head, Rare sight! bald Sam, in the Pretender's bed : I hear (what's wonderful!) unsought by studying, His classic dissertation upon pudding : Of provost Jopp I mark the marvelling face, Who gave the Rambler's freedom with a grace: I see, too, travelling from the Isle of Egg, The humble servant of a horse's leg; And Snip, the tailor, from the Isle of Muck, Who stitch'd in Sky with tolerable luck : I see the horn, that drunkards must adore ; The horn, the mighty horn of Rorie More; And bloody shields, that guarded hearts in quarrels, Now guard from rats the milk and butter barrels. Methinks, the Caledonian dame I see, Familiar sitting on the Rambler's knee, Charming, with kisses sweet, the chuckling sage; Melting, with sweetest smiles, the frost of age; Like Sol, who darts, at times, a cheerful ray, O’er the wan visage of a winter's day. « Do it again, my dear,” I hear Sam cry, 6 See, who first tires, (my charmer !) you or I.” I see thee stuffing, with a hand uncouth, An old dried whiting in thy Johnson's mouth;
And lo! I see withall his might and main,
Pleased, on thy book thy sovereign's eye-balls roll, Who loves a gossip's story from his soul; Blessed with the memory of the Persian king ( ), He every body knows, and every thing ; Who's dead, who's married, what poor girl, beguiled, Hath lost a paramour and found a child; Which gardener hath most cabbages and peas, And which old woman hath most hives of bees ; Which farmer boasts the most prolific sows, Cocks, hens, geese, turkeys, goats, sheep, bulls, and cows; Which barber best the ladies' locks can curl ; Which house in Windsor sells the finest purl ; Which chimney-sweep best heats in gold array, His brush and shovel, on the first of May! Whose dancing dogs in rigadoons excel ; And whose the puppet show, that bears the bell: Which clever smith, the prettiest man-trap (2) makes To save from thieves the royal ducks and drakes, (1) Cyrus. (2) His Majesty hath planted a number of those trusty guardians around his park at Windsor, for the benefit of the public.
The Guinea hens and peacocks with their eggs,
(1) Just after Dr. Johnson had been honoured with an interview with a certain great personage, in the Queen's library at Buckingham House, he was interrogated by a friend, concerning his reception, and his opinion of the royal intellect. — “ His Majesty seems to be possessed of much good. nature, and much curiosity,” replied the Doctor; " as for his yous, it is far from contemptible. His Majesty, indeed, was multifarious in his questions ; but, thank God, he answered them all himself."
(2) The Life of Dr. Johnson.
(3) His Majesty's commentary on that quarrel, in which the Bishop and the Doctor pelted one the other with dirt so gracefully, will be a treasure to the lovers of literature! Mr. B. hath as good as promised it to the public, and, we hope, means to keep his word.
That holds the wisdom of a thousand ages,
Let Lord Mac Donald threat thy breech to kick (),
(1) A club, mostly composed of learned ladies, to which Mr. B. was ad. mitted.
(2) A letter of severe remonstrance was sent to Mr. B., who in consequence omitted, in the second edition of his Journal, what is so generally pleasing to the public, viz. the scandalous passages relative to this nobleman.
(3) Sir John Hawkins, who (as well as Mrs. Thrale, now Madame Piozzi) threatens us with the Life of the late lexicographer.
Snatch up the pen (as thirst of fame inspires !)
and ink so ready at thy coat,
O! whilst amid the anecdotic mine, Thou labour'st hard to bid thy hero shine, Run to Bolt Court(2), exert thy Curl-like soul, And fish for golden leaves from hole to hole: Find when he eat, and drank, and cough, and sneezed – Let all his motions in thy book be squeezed : On tales, however strange, impose thy claw; Yes, let thy amber lick up every straw;
(1) This is literally true - Nobody is at home. Our great people want the taste to relish Mr. Boswell's vehicles to immortality. Though in Lon. don, poor Bozzy is in a desert.
(2) In Fleet Street, where the Doctor lived and died.