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 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
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!

ON THE RUINS OF A COUNTRY INN.

WHERE now these mingled ruins lie

A temple once to Bacchus rose, Beneath whose roof, aspiring high,

Full many a guest forgot his woes.

No more this dome, by tempests torn,

Affords a social safe retreat; But ravens here, with eye forlorn,

And clustering bats henceforth will meet.

The Priestess of this ruined shrine,

Unable to survive the stroke, Presents po more the ruddy wine,

Her glasses gone, her china broke.

The friendly Host, whose social hand

Accosted strangers at the door, Has left at length his wonted stand,

And greets the weary guest no more.

Old creeping Time, that brings decay,

Might yet have spared these mouldering walls, Alike beneath whose potent sway

A temple or a tavern falls.

Is this the place where mirth and joy,

Coy nymphs, and sprightly lads were found Indeed! no more the nymphs are coy,

No more the flowing bowls go round.

Is this the place where festive song

Deceived the wintry hours away? No more the swains the tune prolong,

No more the maidens join the lay:

Is this the place where Nancy slept

In downy beds of blue and green ?Dame Nature here no vigils kept,

No cold unfeeling guards were seen.