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Some hero, with superior virtue bless'd,

Avert their rage, and succour the distress'd;
Inspired with love of glorious liberty,

Do wonders to preserve his country free;
He like the guardian shepherd stands, and they
Like lions spoil'd of their expected prey,

Each urging in his rage the deadly dart,
Resolved to pierce the generous hero's heart;
Struck with the sight, your souls would swell with
grief,

And dare ten thousand deaths to his relief,
But, if the people he preserved should cry,
He went too far, and he deserved to-die,
Would not your soul such treachery detest,
And indignation boil within your breast,
Would not you wish that wretched state preserved,
To feel the tenfold ruin they deserved?

your

If, then, oppression has not quite subdued
At once your prudence and your gratitude,
If you yourselves conspire not your undoing,
And don't deserve, and won't draw down
If yet to virtue you have some pretence,
If yet ye are not lost to common sense,
Assist your patriot in your own defence;
That stupid cant, "he went too far," despise,
And know that to be brave is to be wise:
Think how he struggled for your liberty,

ruin,

And give him freedom, whilst yourselves are free.

M. B.

PUNCH'S PETITION TO THE LADIES.

-Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,

Auri sacra fames?

THIS poem partly relates to Wood's halfpence, but resembles the style of Sheridan rather than of Swift. Hoppy, or Hopkins, here mentioned, seems to be the master of the revels, and secretary to the Duke of Grafton, when LordLieutenant. See also Verses on the Puppet-Show.---Scott.

FAIR ones who do all hearts command,
And gently sway with fan in hand
Your favourite-Punch a suppliant falls,
And humbly for assistance calls;
He humbly calls and begs you'll stop
The gothic rage of Vander Hop,
Wh' invades without pretence and right,
Or any law but that of might,

Our Pigmy land—and treats our kings
Like paltry idle wooden things;
Has beat our dancers out of doors,
And call'd our chastest virgins whores;
He has not left our Queen a rag on,
Has forced away our George and Dragon,
Has broke our wires, nor was he civil
To Doctor Faustus nor the devil;
E'en us he hurried with full rage,
Most hoarsely squalling off the stage;
And faith our fright was very great

To see a minister of state,

Arm'd with power and fury come

To force us from our little home

We fear'd, as I am sure we had reason,
An accusation of high-treason;

Till, starting up, says Banamiere,

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Treason, my friends, we need not fear,
For 'gainst the Brass we used no power,
Nor strove to save the chancellor.1

Nor did we show the least affection
To Rochford or the Meath election;
Nor did we sing,- Machugh he means.'
"You villain, I'll dash out your brains,
"Tis no affair of state which brings
Me here or business of the King's;
I'm come to seize you all as debtors,
And bind you fast in iron fetters,
From sight of every friend in town,
Till fifty pound's to me paid down."
"Fifty!" quoth I,
a devilish sum;

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But stay till the brass farthings come,
Then we shall all be rich as Jews,
From Castle down to lowest stews;
That sum shall to you then be told,
Though now we cannot furnish gold."

1 Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant, who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.---Scott.

Quoth he, thou vile mis-shapen beast,
Thou knave, am I become thy jest ;
And dost thou think that I am come
To carry nought but farthings home,
Thou fool, I ne'er do things by halves,
Farthings are made for Irish slaves;
No brass for me, it must be gold,
Or fifty pounds in silver told,
That can by any means obtain
Freedom for thee and for thy train."
"Votre tres humble serviteur,
I'm not in jest," said I, "I'm sure,
But from the bottom of my belly,
I do in sober sadness tell you,
I thought it was good reasoning,
For us fictitious men to bring
Brass counters made by William Wood
Intrinsic as we flesh and blood;

Then since we are but mimic men,

Pray let us pay in mimic coin."

Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,

And couldst for ever hold debate;

But think'st thou I have nought to do

But to stand prating thus with you?
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until
you pay the foresaid sum."

Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn'd to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,

Use all your interest with your sec,'
(They say he's at the ladies' beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas did of old:

Your charms I'm sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;

At

your command he'll set us free,

Let us to you owe liberty.

Get us a license now to play,

And we'll in duty ever pray.

TRIFLES.

A LEFT-HANDED LETTER
TO DR. SHERIDAN,2 1718.

DELANY reports it, and he has a shrewd tongue,
That we both act the part of the clown and cow-

dung;

We lie cramming ourselves, and are ready to burst,

1 Abridged from Secretary, rythmi gratia.---Scott.

2 The humour of this poem is partly lost, by the impossibility of printing it left-handed as it was written.---H.

VOL. III.

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