Fools may pursue their adverse fate,
And stick to the unfortunate;

We laugh while they condemn us.

For, being of that gen'rous mind,
To success we are still inclined,

And quit the suffering side,

If on our friends cross planets frown,
We join the cry, and hunt them down,
And sail with wind and tide.

Hence 'twas this choice we long delay'd,
Till our rash foes the rebels fled,

Whilst fortune held the scale;

But [since] they're driven like mist before you, Our rising sun, we now adore you,

Because you now prevail.

Descend then from your lofty seat,
Behold th' attending Muses wait

With us to sing your praises;

Calliope now strings up her lyre,
And Clio Phoebus does inspire,

1

The theme their fancy raises.

If then our nursery you will nourish,
We and our Muses too will flourish,

Encouraged by your favour;

This is spelled Chloe, but evidently should be Clio; indeed, many errors appear in the transcription, which probably were mistakes of the transcriber.---Scott.

We'll doctrines teach the times to serve,
And more five thousand pounds deserve,
By future good behaviour.

Now take our harp into your hand,
The joyful strings, at your command,

In doleful sounds no more shall mourn.

We, with sincerity of heart,

To all your tunes shall bear a part,

Unless we see the tables turn.

If so, great sir, you will excuse us,
For we and our attending Muses

May live to change our strain;
And turn, with merry hearts, our tune,
Upon some happy tenth of June,

To "the king enjoys his own again."

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG,'

ON A SEDITIOUS PAMPHLET. 1720.

To the tune of "Packington's Pound."

BROCADES, and damasks, and tabbies, and gauzes, Are, by Robert Ballantine, lately brought over, With forty things more: now hear what the law says, Whoe'er will not wear them is not the king's lover.

This ballad alludes to the Dean's "Proposal for the use of Irish Manufactures," for which Waters, the printer, was prosecuted with great violence. Lord Chief-Justice Whitshed sent the jury repeatedly out of court, until he had wearied them into a special verdict.---Scott.

Though a printer and Dean,

Seditiously mean,

Our true Irish hearts from Old England to wean, We'll buy English silks for our wives and our

daughters,

In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

In England the dead in woollen are clad,

The Dean and his printer then let us cry fie on; To be clothed like a carcass would make a Teague mad,

Since a living dog better is than a dead lion. Our wives they grow sullen

At wearing of woollen,

And all we poor shopkeepers must our horns pull in. Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our

daughters,

In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

Whoever our trading with England would hinder,
To inflame both the nations do plainly conspire,
Because Irish linen will soon turn to tinder,
And wool it is greasy, and quickly takes fire.
Therefore, I assure ye,

Our noble grand jury,

When they saw the Dean's book, they were in a great fury;

They would buy English silks for their wives and their daughters,

In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

This wicked rogue Waters, who always is sinning, And before coram nobis so oft has been call'd, Henceforward shall print neither pamphlets nor linen,*

And if swearing can do't shall be swingingly

maul'd;

And as for the Dean,

You know whom I mean,

If the printer will peach him, he'll scarce come off clean.

Then we'll buy English silks for our wives and our

daughters,

In spite of his deanship and journeyman Waters.

THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS.1

1720.

THE bold encroachers on the deep
Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
Turns all again to barren strand.

The multitude's capricious pranks
Are said to represent the seas,
Which, breaking bankers and the banks,
Resume their own whene'er they please.

This poem was printed some years ago, and it should seem, by the late failure of two bankers, to be somewhat prophetic. It was therefore thought fit to be reprinted.--Dub. Ed.

Money, the life-blood of the nation,
Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
Unless a proper circulation

Its motion and its heat maintains.

Because 'tis lordly not to pay,
Quakers and aldermen in state,

Like

peers,

have levees every day Of duns attending at their gate.

We want our money on the nail;

The banker's ruin'd if he pays: They seem to act an ancient tale; The birds are met to strip the jays.

• Riches," the wisest monarch sings,

"Make pinions for themselves to fly;" They fly like bats on parchment wings,

And geese their silver plumes supply.

No money left for squandering heirs!
Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
The wish of Nero now is theirs,

"That they had never known their letters."

Conceive the works of midnight hags,
Tormenting fools behind their backs:
Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags,
Sit squeezing images of wax.

Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
The witches left in open air,