Like my poor aunt, thou haft feen better days!
Well curl'd and powder'd, once it was thy lot
Balls to frequent, and masquerades, and plays,
And panoramas, and the Lord knows what!
Oh! thou hast heard e'en Madam Mara fing,
And oft-times vifited my Lord Mayor's treat;
And once, at court, waft notic'd by the King,
Thy form was fo commodious, and fo neat.
Alas! what art thou now? a mere old
mop!
With which our houfemaid Nan, who hates a broom,
Dufts all the chambers in my little fhop,
Then flyly hides thee in this lumber-room!
Such is the fate of avigs! and mortals too!
After a few more years than thine are paft,
The Turk, the Chriftian, Pagan, and the Jew,
Muft all be fhut up in a box at last !.
to talk fo loud, and look fo big!
How fmall's the difference 'twixt thee and a wig?
How fmall indeed! for fpeak the truth I muft,
Wigs turn to dufters, and man turns to dust.
AN APOLOGY FOR CONSTANTLY WEARING
A WIG.
I'LL tell thee, dear Jack, without nonfenfe or rig,
Why I'm conftantly feen in this old flaxen wig:
It ferves various ufes; it covers my head
From the flies in the day, and the bugs when in bed.
LORD MAYOR'S SHOW
OR THE RIVAL KNIGHTS.
[From the Morning Poft.]
ONG fhall the joyous world remember
The glorious Ninth of dull November;
A day of rivalfhip between
Sir John of England and Sir Napolent.
Nay not with bloodftain'd weapons arm'd, As mighty knights of old were wont,
For war's dread steed skulk'd off alarm'd,
With glutted carnage drunk upon 't ; ·
But each in noife, mud, mirth, and pother,
Strove hard which should outdo the other.
Dull wreaths of fmoke, in black array,
Firft ufher'd forth the glorious day;
Thick fog-fo thick, that one might ftand on,
United Paris quite to London.
Aurora from her sable bed
Rofe veiled like a vestal fair,
Dewdrops in clufters hung inftead
Of gems, to her difhevell'd hair.
This day fhall in red letters flame
On the expanded roll of Fame!
Long had our Knight, in various ftations,
Against this day made preparations,
Which the renowned Knight of France
Saw with a jealous eye askance.
For, be it known, he claim'd this day,
In fome respects, as quite his own,
E'er fince he pav'd the rugged way
To France's long-forfaken throne.
But our illuftrious English Knight
Claim'd justly to it prior right.
Thus matters ftood, when both agreed (And wife the treaty feem'd indeed),. Instead of meeting in the field,
On warlike fteed, with lance and field,
To let impartial bufy Fame,
In better and more harmless way,
Decide the much-contested claim
To this important dirty day :
Thus fhe decreed-" Let him be most renown'd,
Where gay festivity fhall moft abound. "
Ere fmoke bedeck'd the chimney-tops,
Or bufy tradefmen op'd their fhops,
Arofe the great Parifian hero,
To vie in pomp with ancient Nero.-
The roar of cannon founded hoarfe,
The chimes of bells re-echo'd fhrill,
The Knight beftrode his prancing horfe,
With myriads nodding to his will!
On either fide, a gaudy band were feen,
Proclaiming him the great Sir Napolene.
In London too-our great Sir John
Had early 66 put his doublet on;"
His plan was laid with nice precifion,
In all things, without one omiffion.-
The ftately barges proudly rear'd
Their heads, with gaudy ftreamers flying; 1
Old father Thames triumphant ftar'd,
As the gay gilded oars were plying!
At laft, of Bridge-ftreet the proceffion,
'Midft mud-ftain'd crowds, took full poffeffion.
There, rang'd to meet the gallant Knight,
Appear'd a rare and comely fight ;-
Prim citizens in bright array,
There join'd the "hero of the day:'
A gallant warrior ftalk'd before,
Who (like the ghost in Hamlet feen)
The Conqueror's* pond'rous armour wore-
Enough to frighten Napolene 1:
Thus did our British /bow advance,
And now we'll take a trip to France.
But there, alas! our poor Sir John
Was by the Gallic Knight outbone,
* The author has been informed, that the armour made ufe of was
that of William the Conqueror, taken from the Tower.
For Britain has but little chance
To vie in outward show with France!
There folemn Pomp took lofty strides,
Attended by her gaudy train;
There Laughter fhook her muddy fides, And Frolic frisk'd along the plain.
The goddess Pleasure there delights to rove, 'Midit military pomp, or fofter fcenes of love.
Fame in her cloudy chariot flew
From place to place, each scene to view;
But when the Gallic pomp fhe faw,
She foon condemn'd the London Show:
Then to her wide-extended lips
She put the trump that founds fo loud,
But Britain's Genius flyly flips
Close to her from the gazing crowd,
And, unperceiv'd, with gentle thump,
He put afide the ready trump.
In t'other hand he held a cup,
Which Jove himself might fouffle up;
'T was what you may a cenfer call,
Full of fawcet incenfe from Guildhall;
Where many a fatten'd beaft and fowl
Were just prepar'd for facrificing,
With many a fparkling, flowing bowl:
A fight fo lufcious and enticing,
No fooner met the eye of Fame,
Than thither with full fpeed fhe came.
So bufy had the Goddess been,
It made her appetite quite keen;
She fnuffled quick the fav'ry fmell,
Which pleas'd her Goddefs-fhip fo well,
That now Sir John had nought to do
To win the great and glorious day,
But leave to France all pompous fhow,
And feek for fame this better way.
This faw the Gallic Knight, too late,
And chew'd the cud of empty ftate.
When cheerful fongs and feftive glee
Gave place to noify jollity,
When Cits lay welt'ring in red Port,
Fame, much delighted with the fport,
Took kindly by the hand our Knight,
And by the great Olympus fwore
He fhould find favour in her fight:
Thus he the palm of vict'ry bore!
"Subftantial food," faid he, "is now, I know,
Far pref'rable to vain and empty show."
LORD MAYOR'S DAY;
OR AN ODE TO GLUTTONY.
[From the Oracle.}
INSAT LATE monfter! born and bred"
Where fell Difeafe erects its head,
And ghaftly spectres pine;
The throbbing pulfe, the burning veins,
The gout's tormenting, racking pains,
Gluttony! these are thine.
When man, illum'd by Reason's
Dares fuch degrading mind'difplay,
Say, all the Mufe be mute;
When, 'ftead of foaring to the fkies,
Reeling and gorg'd'on earth he lies,
And imitates the brute?
Th' infpiring glafs, the gen'rous bowl,
May footh each care, and cheer the foul-
The heart of forrow cheat;
Quick make the hours pais along-
Promote the laugh, excite the fong,
To measures move the feet.
But Gluttony, voracious fiend,
Leaves every focial joy behind;
Dull, heavy, felfith, cold!
In Hift'ry's true, impartial page,
To each fucceeding wond'ring age,
What horrid tales are told!
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