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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
Sir Arthur Acheson, whose great Grand-Father was Sir ARCHIBALD of Gosford in Scotland,
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.
SHE E LA H.
* 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
my Weeding-Knife and thee.
The * Sir Arthur's Burler.
The Journal of a Modern Lady.
Written in the Year 1728.
T was a most unfriendly Part
In you, who ought to know my Heart,
[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
Compell’d by you to tag in Rhimes,
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: