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Like my poor aunt, thou haft iseen 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 whaz! Oh! thou hast heard e'en Madam Mara fing,
And oft-times visited my Lord Mayor's treat ; And once, at court, wast notic'd by the King,
Thy form was so commodious, and so neat. Alas! what art thou now? a niere old mop!
With which our housemaid Nan, who hates a broom, Dufts all the chambers in my little shop,
Then flyly hides thee in this lumber-room! Such is the fate of avigs! and mortals too!
After a few moče years than thine are paít,
The Turk, the Christiao, Pagan, and die jew,
Must all be Mut up in a box at lalt!
Vain man! to talk fo loud, and look fo big !
How small 's the difference 'twixt thee and a wig?
How small indeed !- for speak the truth. I must,
Wigs turn to dufters, and man turns to duft.
AN APOLOGY FOR CONSTANTLY WEARING
I'LL tell thee, dear Jack, without nonsense or rig,
Why I'm conftantly seen in this old faxen wig:
It serves various uses ; 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 shall the joyous world remember
The glorious Ninth of dull November;
A day of rivalship between
Sir John of England and șir Napolenfasis
LORD AYOR'S SHOW...!!
Naye-hot with bloodstain'd weapons armid,
As mighty knights of old were wont,
For war's dread iteed skulk'd off alarm'd,
With glutted carnage drunk upon't;
But each in noise, mud, mirth, and pother,
Strove hard which Mould outdo the other..
Dull wreaths of fioke, in black array,
Firft ufer'd forth the glorious day;
Thick fng—so thick, that one might stand on,
United Paris quite to London.
Aurora from her fable bed
Rofe veiled like a vestal fair,
Dewdrops in clusters hung instead *
Of gems, to her dishevell d hair.
This day Mall in red letters flame
On the expanded roll of Fame:!
Long had our Knight, in various stations,
Against this day made preparations,
Which the renowned Knight of France
Saw with a jealous eye alkance.
*'! For, be it known, he claim'd this day,
In some respects, as quite his own,
E'er fince he pay'd the rugged way
To France's long.forsaken throne.
But our illustrious English Knight
Claim'd justly to it prior right.
Thus matters stood, when both agreed
(And wise the treaty seem'd indeed), :
Instead of meeting in the field,
On warlike steed, with lance and Arielu,
To let impartial busy Fame,
In better and more harmless way,
Decide the much-contested claim
To this important dirty day :
Thus she decreed — Let him be most renown'd,
Where gay feftivity shall most abound."
Ere fioke bedeck'd the chimney-tops,
Or busy trademen op'd their shops,
Arose the great Parisian hero,
To vie in pomp with ancient Nero.---
The roar of cannon founded hoarse,
The chimes of bells re-echo'd rill,
The Knight beftrode his prancing horfe,
With myriads nodding to his will!
On either side, a gaudy band were feen,
Proclaiming him the great Sir Napolene.
In London ton-our great Sir Jolin
Had early “ put his doublet on;"
His plan was laid with nice precision,
In all things, without one omission.-
The stately barges proudly rear's
Their heads, with gauçly streamers flying ;
Old father Thames triumphant star'd,
As the gay gilded oars were plying!
At last, of Bridge-ftreet the procession,
'Midst mud-stain'd crowds, took full poffesfion.
There, rang'd to meet the gallant Knight,
Appear'd a rare and comely fight;
Priin citizens in bright array, :
There join'd the “hero of the day :"
A gallant warrior ftalk'd before,
Who (like the ghost in Hamlet seen)
The Conqu’ror's * pond'rous armour wore
Enough to frighten Napolene! :
Thus did our British Show advance,
And now we'll take a trip to France.
But there, álas! our poor Sir John
Was by the Gallic Knight outshone,
* The author has been informed, that the'armour made use of was that of William the Conqueror, taken from the Tower.
LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.
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 sides,
And Frolic friik'd along the plaio.
The goddess Pleasure there delights to rove,
Midit military pomp, or softer scenes of love.
Fame in her cloudy chariot flew
From place to place, each scene to view i
But when the Gallic pomp she saw,
She foon condemo'd the London Show:
Then to her wide-extended lips
She put the trump that sounds so loud,
But Britain's Genius flyly flips
Close to her from the gazing crowd,
And, unperceiv'd, with gentle thump,
He put aside the ready trump.
In t'other hand he held a cup,
Which Jove himself might inufile up;
'Twas what you may a cenfer call,
Full of sweet incense from Guildhall;
Where many a fatten'd beast and fowl
Were just prepar'd for facrificing,
With many a sparkling, flowing bowl:
A fight fo luscious and enticing,
No sooner met the eye of Fame,
Than thither with full fpeed the came.
So busy had the Goddess been,
It made her appetite quite keen;
She snuffled quick the fav'ry smell,
Which pleas'd her Goddefs-ship so well,
That now Sir John had nought to do
To win the great and glorious day,
But leave to France all pompous show,
And feek for fame this better way.
This saw the Gallic Knight, too late,
And chew'd the cud of cmpty state.
When cheerful songs and festive glee
Gave place to noisy jollity,
When Cits l'ay welt'ring in' red Port,
Fame, much delighted with the sport,
Took kindly by the hand our Knight,
And by the great Olympus lwore
He should find favour in her fight :
Thus he the palm of vięt'ry bore !
Substantial food," said the," is now, I know,
Far pref'rable to vaint and empty show."
Nov. 10, 1801
LORD MAYOR'S DAY;
OR AN ODE TO GLUTTONY.
[From the Oracle.] INSAT IATE monster! born and bred
Where fell Diseale ereets 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 ray,
Dares such degrading mind'display,
Say, Mall the Muse be mute,
When, 'stead of foaring to the skies,
Reeling and gorg'd'on earth he lies,
And imitates the bruté ?
Th' inspiring glass, the gen'rous bowl,
May footh each care, and cheer the four
The heart of sorrow cheat;
Quick make the hours pass along
Promote the laugh, excite the song,
To measures move the feet:
But Gluttony, voracious fiend,
Leaves every facial joy behind;
Dull, heavy, selfish, cold!
In Hift'ry's true, impartial page,
To each luncceeding wond'ring age,
What horrid tales are told!