Of wisdom she threw in a spice,

But omitted to add common sense; Dutch prudence a very large slice,

To teach him the saving of pence.

She gave him good honesty's phiz;
No mummy was ever more grave,
Although, my dear madam, the quiz,
To his wit's full extent is a knave.

All this she perform'd in a jerk,

And being well pleas'd with him, so far, She set herself gravely to work,

And forc'd him to swallow a crow-bar.

No wonder then this queer machine,

Which so rude, and so awkwardly made is,

By no-body ever was seen

To bow to the fairest of ladies.*

* The lady, to whom these lines were addressed, had been offended at the insolence of the character who sat as the original for cur picture.

At length he was usher'd to light,
A half-alive kind of commodity,

A thing, which you'd say, at first sight,
Was quite the quintessence of oddity.

She planted him down in yon hut,
To vegetate there with impunity,

Till death shall prohibit the Put

Any more from disgusting community.

1 2

EULOGY

ON THE TIMES.

LET poets scrawl satirick rhymes,
And sketch the follies of the times,
With much caricaturing ;
But I, a bon-ton bard, declare

A set of slanderers they are,

E'en past a Job's enduring.

Let crabbed cynicks snarl away, And pious parsons preach and pray

Against the vices reigning;

That mankind are so wicked grown, Morality is scarcely known,

And true religion waning.

Societies, who vice suppress,

May make a rumpus; ne'ertheless,

Our's is the best of ages;

Such hum-drum folks our fathers were,
They could no more with us compare,

Than Hottentots with sages.

To think of THEM, a vulgar set;

But we, thank G-d, are QUALITY!

For we have found this eighteenth century What ne'er was known before, I'll venture ye, Religion's no reality !

Tom Paine, and Godwin, both can tell

That there is no such thing as hell!

A doctrine mighty pleasant;
Your old-wives tales of a hereafter
Are things for ridicule and laughter,
While we enjoy the present.

We've nought to do, but frisk about,
At midnight ball, and Sunday rout,

And Bacchanalian revel;

To gamble, drink, and live at ease,

Our great and noble selves to please,
Nor care for man, nor devil.

In these good times, with little pains,
And scarce a penny-worth of brains,
A man with great propriety,
With some small risk of being hung,
May cut a pretty dash among

The foremost in society.

Good reader, I'll suppose, for once,
Thou art no better than a dunce,
But wishest to be famous;

I'll tell thee how, with decent luck,
Thou may'st become as great a buck
As any one could name us.

When first in high life you commence, To virtue, reason, common sense,

You'll please to bid adieu, sir;