I think, by this good candle-light,

You've earn'd a drubbing.'

Pho! peace,' said I, 'I'll blot it quite ;

Aye, by St. Dobbin.*

Witness therefore, by my small finger,
John chooses still on earth to linger,
As penman, poet, toper, singer,

In trade full thriving;

Know then, old bellman, barber, tinker,

John Baynham's living.

WILL GORMAN,

THE KILLEIGH WEAVER.

A piteous elegy, indeed,

Endited sad on gabbling Gorman;

Who, from his loom and shuttle freed,
Took voyage for the Stygian shore, man.

SO dapper was he in his size,
That midnight gossips would surmise
Some fay did blind his mother's eyes,

And stint him short;

Yet would he merry tales devise

*

With mickle sport.

The Killeigh Mercury he was,
To pen songs on the corner-cross;
Or lay them on the pump across,

With cautious look.

I' faith, we have a piteous loss,

Since he forsook.

* Much.

When o'er his loom the great mon *sat,
He'd verses make on this or that,

On Norah's stockings, Nelly's hat,

Or Nancy's garters ;

Or satires pen black as my hat,

And cut in quarters.

Not Hudibras himself was greater
In forging Babylonish metre ;
Rebus he'd fix on any creature,

And ne'er the worse:

I think his numscull was completer

Stor'd than his purse.

Know then (for him you'll ne'er ken more, man), Here lies the shell-work of Will Gorman.

.* Man.

A LAMENTABLE

ELEGY ON NICHOLAS,

THE KILLEIGH TAYLOR.

L

THY namesake saw thy worth at last;
And took thee, faith, as a dead cast:
Thy revels and thy routs are past,

Ill-fated Nichol;

Auld don t thy carcase threw with haste
Into his pickle.

Now you may deck the prince of soot
With goodly clothes from head to foot,
I ween he wants a new recruit ;

For since his fall

But an old pall.

He's got no tolerable suit,

• Old Nick (as we say).

+ The old Don (explained in the preceding note).

Much good may this new custom do thee! May the coquettes of lowland woo thee, And am'rous scratch thy cheeks so ruddy With tooth and nail;

And when thou enter'st on thy study,

Bid thee all-hail!

Cæsar may want thy aid, sir, there;
Or Alexander, the great bear,

Pawn his lank knapsack in despair,

To get thee credit:

For authors say, queer clothes they wear, As you may read it.

We'll give thee joy of thy free trade.
May'st thou by Satan be well paid :

And never be by duns dismay'd;

Save now and then,

By some fair brimstone-blooded jade!

John says,Amen.'

What pompous words thy tongue adorn'd!

For monosyllables were scorn'd.

Full many a husband hast thou horn'd;

For which sweet sport,

Forefend you be not now suborn'd

In Pluto's court!