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Come, brave boys, and fill your glasses,

You have humbled one proud foe,
No brave action this surpasses,

Fame shall tell the nations so.
Thus be Britain's woes completed,

Thus abridged her cruel reign,
Till she ever, thus defeated,

Yields the sceptre of the main.

1782

ON A TRAVELLING SPECULATOR.

ON
N scent of game, from town to town he flew,

The soldier's curse pursued him on his way;
Care in his eye, and anguish on his brow,

He seemed a sea-hawk watching for his prey.

With soothing words the widow's mite he gained,

With piercing glance watched misery's dark abode, Filched paper scraps while yet a scrap remained,

Bought where he must, and cheated where he could.

Vast loads amassed of scrip, and who knows what;

Potosi's wealth seemed lodged within his clutch, But wealth has wings (he knew) and instant bought

The prancing steed, gay harness, and gilt coach.

One Sunday morn, to church we saw him ride

In glittering state-alack! and who but he-
The following week, with Madam at his side,

To routs they drove-and drank Imperial tea!

In cards and fun the livelong day they spent,

With songs and smut prolonged the midnight feast, If plays were had, to plays they constant went,

Where Madam's top-kpot rose a foot at least.

Three weeks, and more, thus passed in airs of state,

The fourth beheld the mighty bubble fail,-
And he, who countless millions owned šo late,

Stopped short-and closed his triumphs in a jail

THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND.

IN
N spite of all the learned have said,

I still my old opinion keep;
The posture that we give the dead

Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;

The Indian, when from life released, Again is seated with his friends,

And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds, and painted bowl,

And venison, for a journey dressed, Bespeak the nature of the soul,

Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow for action ready bent,

And arrows, with a head of stone, Can only mean that life is spent,

And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,

No fraud upon the dead commit, Observe the swelling turf, and say,

They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains)

The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,

Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires)

The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen

(Pale Shebah with her braided hair), And many a barbarous form is seen

To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,

In habit for the chase arrayed, The hunter still the deer pursues,

The hunter and the deer-a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see

The painted chief, and pointed spear. And Reason's self shall bow the knee

To shadows and delusions here.

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE.

FAIR
TAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,

Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,

She bade thee shiun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;

Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,

I grieve to see your future doom;
They died-nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power,
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews

At first thy little being came;
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;

The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

THE PARTING GLASS.

THE

HE man that joins in life's career

And hopes to find some comfort here,
To rise above this earthly mass, –
The only way's to drink his glass.
But, still, on this uncertain stage,
Where hopes and fears the soul engage,
And while, amid the joyous band,
Unheeded flows the measured sand,
Forget not as the moments pass,
That time shall bring the parting glass!
In spite of all the mirth I've heard,
This is the glass I always feared,
The glass that would the rest destroy,
The farewell cup, the close of joy!

With you, whom reason taught to think,
I could, for ages, sit and drink:
But with the fool, the sot, the ass,
I haste to take the parting glass.

The luckless wight, that still delays
His draught of joys to future days,
Delays too long-for then, alas!
Old age steps up, and—breaks the glass !

The nymph, who boasts no borrowed charms,
Whose sprightly wit my fancy warms;
What though she tends this country inn,
And mixes wine, and deals out gin ?
With such a kind, obliging lass,
I sigh to take the parting glass.

With him, who always talks of gain
(Dull Momus, of the plodding train),
The wretch, who thrives by others' woes,
And carries grief where'er he goes:
With people of this knavish class
The first is still my parting glass.

With those that drink before they dine,
With him that apes the grunting swine,
Who fills his page with low abuse,
And strives to act the gabbling goose
Turned out by fate to feed on grass-
Boy, give me quick, the parting glass.

The man, whose friendship is sincere,
Who knows no guilt, and feels no fear;-
It would require a heart of brass
With him to take the parting glass.

With him who quaffs his pot of ale,
Who holds to all an even scale;
Who hates a knave, in each disguise,
And fears him not-whate'er his size-
With him, well pleased my days to pass,
May heaven forbid the Parting Glass!

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