With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd,
And dang❜rous to the touch, has yet its bloom,
And decks itself with ornaments of gold,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense
With luxury of unexpected sweets.

There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love

With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy, too,

Delusive most where warmest wishes are,

Would oft anticipate his glad return,

And dream of transports she was not to know.

She heard the doleful tidings of his death

And never smil'd again! and now she roams

The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,

And there, unless when charity forbids,

The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides,

Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs.

She begs an idle pin of all she meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is
craz'd!

I see a column of slow rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,
Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloin'd

Stothard Del

Published Feb. 1.1798, by JJohnson London.

Legat Sculp

Kate is Crazd.

From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race!
They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge,
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un-
quench'd

The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide
Their flutt'ring rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim.

Great skill have they in palmistry, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch,
Conveying worthless dross into its place;

Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange! that a creature rational, and cast

In human mould, should brutalize by choice
His nature; and, though capable of arts

By which the world might profit, and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer

Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!

Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,

And vex their flesh with artificial sores,