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FASHION..

Britons! beware of Fashion's luring wiles:

On either hand, chief guardians of her power,
And sole dictators of her fickle voice,

Folly and dull Effeminacy reign;

Whose blackest magic and unhallow'd spells
The Roman ardour check'd; their strength decay'd,',
And all their glory scatter'd to the winds.

Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of Fate
Seems ready to decree thy after fall.
By pride, by luxury, what fated ills,

Unheeded, have approach'd thy mortal frame!
How many foreign weeds their heads have rear'd
In thy fair garden! Hasten, ere their strength
And baneful vegetation taint the soil,

To root out rank disease, which soon must spread,,
If no bless'd antidote will purge away

Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle..

A BURLESQUE ELEGY,

ON THE

AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR,

BEFORE HIS ORDERS.

O SAD catastrophe! O event dire!

How shall the loss, the heavy loss be borne?· Or how the Muse attune the plaintive lyre, To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?

Say ye, who can divine the mighty cause,
From whence this modern circumcision springs?

Why such oppressive and such rigid laws

Are still attendant on religious things?

Alas! poor Strephon, to the stern decree
Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd te

yield?

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ON THE AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR.

&

Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree,
Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field.

Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell, And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay, For hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell ;

This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.

O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend;

O yet indulge me with a short delay;

Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend, Ere his proud-locks are scatter'd on the clay.

Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array'd,
With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;
Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,

To banish lustre from the sacred place.

Mourn, O ye zephyrs! for, alas! no more

His waving ringlets shall your call obey!

ON THE AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR.

For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore, Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay.

Amanda, too, in bitter anguish sighs,

And grieves the metamorphosis to see; Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies Dead on the ground shall be reviv'd for thee.

Some skilful artist of a French frizeur,

With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind, And cull the precious relics from the floor, Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.

WRITTEN

AT THE

HERMITAGE OF BRAID,

NEAR EDINBURGH.

WOULD you relish a rural retreat,

Or the pleasure the groves can inspire, The city's allurements forget,

To this spot of enchantment retire.

Where a valley, and crystalline brook,
Whose current glides sweetly along,

Give Nature a fanciful look,

The beautiful woodlands among.

Behold the umbrageous trees

A covert of verdure have spread,

Where shepherds may loll at their ease,

And pipe to the musical shade.