AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.1

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word -
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind:
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways -
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her
When she has walk'd before.

1 See The Bee, No. iv.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore;

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more
She had not died to-day.2

2 This poem [as well as the Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog] is an imitation of the chanson called 'Le fameux la Galisse, homme imaginaire,' in fifty stanzas, printed in the Ménagiana, iv. 191:

'Messieurs, vous plait-il d'ouir

L'air du fameux la Galisse,

Il pourra vous réjouir,

Pourvû qu'il vous divertisse

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desir'd by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears. 'An't please you,' quoth John, ‘I'm not given to letters,

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters: Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,

As I hope to be sav'd! - without thinking on

asses.'

Edinburgh, 1753.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.1

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.2

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures

start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear: Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

1 See The Bee, No. i.

2 First printed in The Busy Body, 1759.-P. C.

THE GIFT

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.'.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give, — and let 'em :

If gems or gold impart a joy,
I'll give them - when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full-blown rose,
Or rosebud, more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.

1 See The Bee, No. ii.