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Man. Hist-silence-don't you hear the drum


Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming.
There, don't you see the guards approach?
Mrs. B. Which is the king?

Mrs. S.

Which is the coach?

Scotchman. Which is the noble earl of Bute?
Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute.
For he's the Laird of aw our clan,

Troth, he's a bonny muckle man.

Man. Here comes the coach, so very slow

As if it ne'er was made to go,

In all the gingerbread of state,

And staggering under its own weight.

Mrs. S. Upon my word, its monstrous fine!
Would half the gold upon't were mine!
How gaudy all the gilding shows!
It puts one's eyes out as it goes.
What a rich glare of various hues,
What shining yellows, scarlets, blues!
It must have cost a heavy price;
'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice.

Mrs. B. So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels!

'Tis nothing else a barge on wheels.

Man. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate,
So big the coach, the arch so strait,
It might be made to rumble through
And pass as other coaches do.

Could they a body-coachman get
So most preposterously fit,
Who'd undertake (and no rare thing)
Without a head to drive the king.

Mrs. S. Lard! what are those two ugly things
There with their hands upon the springs,
Filthy, as ever eyes beheld,

With naked breasts, and faces swell'd?
What could the saucy maker mean,
To put such things to fright the queen?

Man. Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society,

Tritons, which in the ocean dwell,

And only rise to blow their shell.

Mrs. S. Gods, d'ye call those filthy men?

Why don't they go to sea again?

Pray, tell me, sir, you understand,
What do these Tritons do on land?

Mrs. B. And what are they? those hindmost things,

Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings?

Man. Oh, they are gods too, like the others,
All of one family and brothers,
Creatures, which seldom come a-shore,
Nor seen about the king before.

For show, they wear the yellow hue,
Their proper colour is true-blue.

Mrs. S. Lord bless us! what's this noise about? Lord, what a tumult and a rout!

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How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot!
Well-Heav'n preserve the Earl of Bute!
I cannot stay, indeed, not I,
If there's a riot I shall die.

Let's make for any house we can,
Do-give us shelter, honest man.

Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear,
I thought I should have died with fear.
This noise and racketing and hurry

Has put my nerves in such a flurry!
I could not think where you was got,
I thought I'd lost you, Mrs. Scot;
Where's Mrs. Tape, and Mr. Grin?
Lard, I'm so glad we're all got in.

BORN (about) 1700.-DIED 1765.

Or Mallet's birth-place and family nothing is certainly known; but Dr. Johnson's account of his descent from the sanguinary clan of Mac Gregor is probably not much better founded than what he tells us of his being janitor to the high school of Edinburgh. That officer has, from time immemorial, lived in a small house at the gate of the school, of which he sweeps the floors, and rings the bell.

Mallet, at the alleged time of his being thus employed, was private tutor in the family of Mr. Home, of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. By Mr. Home he was recommended to be tutor to the sons of the Duke of Buccleugh, and after travelling on the continent with his pupils, and returning to London, made his way, according to Dr. Johnson, into the society of wits, nobles, and statesmen, by the influence of the family in which he had lived. Perhaps the mere situation of a nobleman's tutor would not have gained such access to a diffident man; but Mallet's manners and talents were peculiarly fitted to make their way in the world. His ballad of William and Margaret first brought him into notice. He became intimate with Pope, and had so much celebrity in his day as to be praised in rhyme both by Savage and Lord Chesterfield. In time he was appointed private secretary to the Prince of Wales. Some of his letters in the earlier part of his life express an interest and friendship for the poet Thomson, which do honour to his heart, but it cannot be disguised that his general history exhibits more address than principle, and his literary career is unimportant. Some years before his death he was appointed keeper of the book of entries for the port of London, and enjoyed a pension for an address to the public, which contributed to hasten the execution of Byng-a fact for which, if true, his supposed ancestors the MacGregors might have been ashamed to acknowledge him.


'Twas at the silent, solemn hour
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime :

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

“Awake!" she cried, " thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.

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