Imatges de pÓgina

252 POEMS on several OCCASIONS. If we, who wear our Wigs

With Fan-Tail and with Snake, Are bubbled thus by Prigs;

Z-ds who wou'd be a Rake? Had I a Heart to fight,

I'd knock the Doctor down ; Or could I read and write,

I'gad I'd wear a Gown. Then leave him to his Birch ;

And at the Rose on Sunday, The Parson safe at Church,

I'll treat you with Burgundy.

A Pastoral DIALOGUE.


Written in the Year 1728.


Who wont to weed the Court of * Gosford

While each with stubbed Knife remov'd the Roots
That rais'd between the Stones their daily Shoots ;
As at their work they fat in counterview,
With mutual Beauty smit, their Passion grew.


[ocr errors]

Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great Grand-Father was Sir ARCHIBALD of Gosford in Scotland,

[ocr errors][ocr errors]

Sing heavenly Muse, in sweetly flowing Strain, The soft Endearments of the Nymph and Swain.

DER MOT. My Love to Sheelab is more firmly fixt, Than trongest Weeds that grow these Stones betwixt, My Spud these Nettles from the Stones can part; No Knife so keen to weed thee from my Heart.

SHE E LA H. My Love for gentle Dermot fafter grows, Than yon tall Dock that rises to thy Nose. Cuc down the Dock, 'twill sprout again ; but O! Love rooted out, again will never grow.

DERMOT. No more that Bry'r thy tender Leg shall rake : (I ipare the Thistles for * Sir Arthur's Sake.) Sharp are the Stones, take thou this rushy Mat; The hardest Bum will bruise with fitting squat.

Thy Breeches torn behind, stand gaping wide,
This Petticoat shall save thy dear Back-lide ;
Nor need I blush, although you feel it wet ;
Dermot, I vow, 'tis nothing else but Sweat.

At an old stubborn Root I chanc'd to tug,
When the Dean threw me this Tobacco-plug:
A longer Half-p'orth never did I fee ;
This, dearest Sheelab, thou shalt share with me.


* Who is a great Lover of Scotland,

SHEELA H. In at the Pantry-door this Morn I Nipt, And from the Shelf a charming Cruft I whipt: * Dennis was out, and I got hither fafe: And thou, my Dear, shalt have the bigger Half,

DE R MOT. When


saw Tady at Long-bullets play, You fat and lous'd him all a Sun-Shine Day. How could you, Sheelab, listen to his Tales, Or crack such Lice as his betwixt your Nails?

SHE E L A H. When


with Oonah stood behind a Ditch, I peept, and faw

you kiss the dirty Bitch. Dermot, how could you touch those nasty Sluts ; I almost with'd this Spud were in your

If Oonab once I kiss’d, forbear to chide ;
Her Aunt's my Gossip by my Father's Side:
But, if I ever touch her Lips again,
May I be doom'd for Life to weed in Rain.

Dermot, I swear, tho’Tady's Locks could hold
Ten Thousand Lice, and ev'ry Louse was Gold,
Him on my Lap you never more should see;
Or, may I lose

my Weeding-Knife and thee.

O, could I carn for thee, my lovely Lass,
A Pair of Brogues to bear thee dry to Mass !
But fee, where Norah with the Sowins comes
Then let us rise, and rest our weary Bums.

The * Sir Arthur's Burler.

[ocr errors]

The Journal of a Modern Lady.

Written in the Year 1728.

[ocr errors]

T was a most unfriendly Part

In you, who ought to know my Heart,
Are well acquainted with my

For all the Female Commonweal:
How cou'd it come into your Mind,
To pitch on me, of all Mankind,
Against the Sex to write a Satyr,
And brand me for a Woman-Hater?
On me, who think them all so fair,
They rival Venus to a Hair?
Their Virtues never ceas'd to sing,
Since first I learn'd to tune a String.
Methinks I hear the Ladies cry,
Will he his Character belye?
Must never our Misfortunes end ?
And have we lost our only Friend?
Ah! lovely Nymphs, remove your Fears,
No more let fall those precious Tears.
Sooner shall, &c.

[Here several Verses are omitted. The Hound be hunted by the Hair, Than I turn Rebel to the Fair.

* Twas you engag'd me first to write, Then gave the Subject out of Spite :


The Journal of a modern Dame
Is by my Promise, what


claim :
My Word is past, I must submit;
And yet perhaps you may be bit.
I but transcribe, for not a Line
Of all the Satyr shall be mine.

[ocr errors]

Compell’d by you to tag in Rhimes,
The common Slanders of the Times;
Of modern Times, the Guilt is yours,
And me my Innocence secures.

UNWILLING Muse begin thy Lay, The Annals of a Female Day.

By Nature turn'd to play the Rake-well, (As we shall shew you in the Sequel) The modern Dame is wak'd by Noon, Some Authors say, not quite so soon : Because, though sore against her Will, She sat all Night up at Quadrill. She stretches, gapes, unglues her Eyes, And asks, if it be time to rise ; Of Head-ach, and the Spleen complains ; And then to cool her heated Brains, (Her Night-Gown and her Slippers brought her,) Takes a large Dram of Citron-Water. Then to her Glass; and “ Betty, pray, “ Don't I look frightfully To-day? 6. But, was ic not confounded hard ? " Well, if I ever touch a Card:

« Four

« AnteriorContinua »