A dizzy head, and thoughts o' th' ramble,
Makes me to write without preamble,
    And bold as any trooper;
To let my friend at distance know,
The plague and trouble I go through,
    Because of Mr. Cowper.
For my Crook's Rib, each-now and then,
Doth frowning ask me, Pray, Sir, when
    May I expect my mountain?
I shrug my shoulders—why—e'er long,
'Twill be at Rochdale, good and strong,
    And clear as any fountain.
But as the clock strikes at the heels
Of the last hour—so Timmy feels
    His ears stunned with this question,
When will my wine and brandy come?
I clear my weasand,—answer–mum—
    Tho' I've your word to rest on.
Perhaps your pictures you expect,
Before I feel the warm effect,
    Of your care-killing liquor!
But hark you, Sir, the days are dark,
And cold: On then I hete aw wark,
    As ill as any Vicar.
But in a month, or two, at least,
Except the sun wheel back to th' east,
    You may expect your beauties;
But in the mean time must I fast?
Or guzzle Ale, not to my taste?
    Nay, hang me on some yew-trees.
I from my cot, this Christmas-Eve,
Write with a troubled mind,――believe,
    And wife in doleful dumps:
For who can merry be, that's wise,
While what he wants in Lerpo lies,
    And vexed with jeers and frumps?
Pray send a line, that I may say,
To my Crook'd-Rib, on such a day,
    Your gossips' nose shall job in
A tankard made of Mountain Wine,
Sweet water, nutmeg, sugar fine,
    And set at rest

TIM. BOBBIN.

 
THE CUCKOO AND OWL:
A FABLE.
――♦――

A Cuckoo many years had rang'd
    Amongst the feathered kind,
To see if he a mate could meet,
    Would fix his roving mind.
He tried all; he loves but few,
    For some too high did soar:
Some were too little, some too big,
    And some too ragg'd and poor.
At last he would a courting go,
    To broad fac'd Mistress Owl,
Believing her the prettiest bird
    Of all the wingèd fowl.
Transported with this odd conceit,
    Away the Cuckow flew,
And in a very amorous strain,
    He thus begins to woo.
Dear Madam Owl, my heart has been,
    Long captive to your charms,
Nor can it have a moment's rest,
    Till your soft down it warms.
This said, the Cuckoo would have bill'd,
    The Owl she turn'd her face;
As knowing coyness whets an edge,
    And gives a better grace.
Sir Cuckow would not be deny'd,
    But struggl'd for a kiss;
Which having gain'd, the Cuckow cry'd,
    What melting joy is this!
Thus thirteen moons the Cuckow woo'd
    Her ladyship, the Owl,
Who thought her sweetheart lov'd her more
    Than Miller loves his toll:
Because he talk'd of Hymen's noose,
    And needs would have her go
To have it ty'd about their Necks,
    By help of parson Crow.
But as it chanc'd, the Owl was deep
    With Rev'rend Crow in love;
And hoping still to make him hers,
    The thing did not approve.
But lest she should not gain the Crow,
    She would not flat deny
The roving Cuckoo's queer request,
    Lest she alone should lie.
The Cuckow smelt the cunning jilt,
    Too wise to be a tool;
And carrries on the farce awhile,
    To countermine the Owl.
For long he'd lov'd and was esteem'd
    By the solitary Jay;
To whom he flying, weds, and leaves
    The Owl to time a prey.
For she not pleasing parson Crow,
    Wish'd she'd the Cuckoo then:
But 'twas too late, the time was gone,
    And would not come again.
Her ruddy face, so gay before,
    Is turn'd a tarnish white;
Her sprightly mind and brilliant thoughts,
    Are like the cloudy night.
So now she haunts the lonely woods,
    And hoots in barns by night;
Complaining of her fine spun wit
    And hates to see the light.

THE MORAL.

The virgin thus in all the bloom of life,
Is lov'd, and courted for a happy wife;
But she denies—expecting nobler game,
Till forty comes and she's no more the same.
For time is gone;—then wishes vainly rise,
She curses av'rice, and a maid she dies.

 
THE GARDINER AND THE ASS:
A FABLE.
――♦――

There is something like a Moral at the end of this tale; but as Timothy could not, would not, or durst not, deduce it naturally, from the general scope of the Fable, as it ought to be; he has left it (like a skein of ruffled silk) for hyperpolitical critics to unravel.

I.

An Ass with poverty long strove,
    And pastur'd in the lanes,
Till, hunger bit, he thus to Jove,
    In rueful tone complains:
Ah! hadst thou made me any beast,
    That laden by doth pass,
Then had my paunch been fill'd (at least)
    With straw if not with grass!
Jove hears his plaint and soon doth send
    A fox, with this advice,
Cheer up, and look more brisk my friend,
    Hunger should make thee wise:
Behold how gay the fool and knave
    Do stiffly strut along:
The rat is sleek, I fat and brave,
    With murder, theft, and wrong.
Look thro' that fence, where spinage sweet,
    And coleworts green do grow,
The lettice and the jucy beet;
    Then who'd be hungry now?
The ass pricks up his slouching ears,
    And into the garden peeps:
He longs the more, the more he stares,
    Then thro' the hedge he creeps.
Balaam promiscuously doth brouze
    On herbs, and choicest flow'rs,
Till Tom the gard'ner doth him rouse,
    And all his sweetness sours.
For lo! a heavy club cries thwang
    Upon the ass's side;
He starts at this unwelcome bang,
    And o'er the beds doth stride.
The fine glass bells and pots are broke,
    Carnations fully blown,
Alike are ruin'd at a stroke,
    And wholly overthrown!
The gardiner distracted, sees
    The havock which he makes,
He flatters much,—desires a peace;
    And thus the ass bespakes:
So, honest Balaam; so, my lad;
    Stand still.—I pr'ythee stand
The club is lost which late I had,
    As witness now my hand.
Thus, fawning, he with cautious strides,
    Lays hold on Balaam's ears.
And out of Paradise him guides,
    To pay for all repairs.
For 'tis resolv'd old Hob must pay
    And Balaam stoop to th' yoke,
By fetching pots and glass next day,
    Instead of those he broke,

II.

The morning scarcely peeps, when Tom
    Between the crates is got,
And busy thrashing Balaam's bum,
    For blunders past, God wot!
The ass bewails his dismal case,
    And groans for freedom lost;
And longs his rider to displace,
    From his triumphing post;
When, lo! he sees behind a ditch,
    Two thorny bushes, where
He straight runs thro', as if bewitch'd,
    And quits his rider clear.
The crates and Tom are left behind,
    He sprawling in the mud.
His face is scratch's, his peepers blind
    With mixèd mire and blood.
Thus crates and saddle which, of late,
    Tom dauntless did bestride,
Mount in their turn—thus mighty Fate
    Doth humble human pride!
He scrap'd his clothes, he wash'd his face,
    And then far Balaam stares,
And saw him nibbling at the grass,
    Discharg'd of worldly cares.
Tom swore by Jove, revenged I'll be
    On thee, by hook or crook;
So with some pains and flattery.
    Again he Balaam took.
The ass is saddled once again,
    And Tom again him mounts;
Resolv'd to ride with careful rein,
    And make him clear accounts.
He then bang'd on about a mile,
    Where he'd a bridge to pass,
And Balaam's ready with a wile,
    As any other ass:
For he was dry, or did pretend,
    At least, for to be so;
Tom thinking he'd no other end,
    So lets the bridle go.
The ass puts down his shaggy pate,
    Then tosses up his rump,
And tumbles Tom from off his seat,
    Who lights i'th' water――plump.
Balaam now thought he'd freedom gain'd,
    But as he march'd away,
He found his head was still restrained,
    Tho' Tom i'th' water lay.
For he'd the bridle in his hand,
    By which the ass did draw
Him bravely sous'd unto the land,
    Ills chagrin'd in his maw.
Tom had no sooner found his feet,
    But banged at the ass,
As if on purpose to be beat,
    As iron is, or brass;
But now his cudgel waxeth short,
    And cooler grows his ire:
Yet mounting steed is not his sport,
    Or trotting his desire.
For hanging bridle on his arm,
    He walks before the ass,
As fearing that some greater harm
    Might quickly come to pass.
So time, who sees the end of things,
    Doth half his journey see,
Where Tom his pots and glasses rings,
    Poor Balaam's load to be.

III.

Now Tom his brittle ware doth pack
    In straw well mix'd, with care,
And lays them on the ass's back,
    Which made him grunt and stare.
Howe'er, with patience Balaam went,
    Until he came unto
The place where will, or accident,
    So late his master threw.
Nature, or man's contrivance, made
    A high and lower way;
The one for such as love to wade,
    One o'er a wood-bridge lay.
The ass by chance, or choice, had got
    Upon the higher road,
When Tom began to dread the lot
    Of his precarious load.
No farther durst he drive the ass,
    Nor could he bring him back;
And Tom in such dilemma was,
    As put his mind o'th' rack.
Fear and vexation fiercely mov'd
    Like light'ning thro' his breast,
Until his fury master prov'd,
    And then he smote his beast.
The blow on Balaam's nose did light,
    Which drove his head askew;
A foot behind slips off for spight,
    And all the rest o'erthrew.
Now, topsy-turvy, bell and pot
    Do jingling tumble down;
And Balaam lies with four feet up,
    Quite dead!――or in a swoon!
The gard'ner, with uplifted hands,
    Extends his mouth and eyes,
And like a marble statue stands,
    In terrible surprize.
A neighbouring tinker by doth come,
    And shakes him by the nose;
Tom answers with a haw and hum,
    As people in a dose,
Then index finger he doth stretch,
    And points at all his woe;
For look, said he, that clumsy wretch,
    Is tumbled down below.
Well, tho' 'tis so, the tinker says,
    An ass is but an ass:
Tom quick replies, that's not the case,
    He's broke my pots and glass!
The tinker owns the story bad,
    But says――Thy standing here
Will never mend it――come, my lad,
    Let's view thy broken geer.
Tom and the tinker now agree,
    And soon unloose the ass;
Then roll him off the crates, but he
    Seem'd deadly stiff, alas!
Then both of them began to throw
    Away the broken ware;
But those they found in statu quo,
    Are pack'd again with care.
This done, the tinker takes one crate
    And saddle on his back,
Tom lifts the other on his pate,
    And homeward both do pack.
As on the road they jogging went,
    Tom told the story o'er;
The tinker did his case lament:
    But still he roundly swore,
Tom was fool in grain, to think
    Of coping with an ass;
Since more we stir, the more we stink,
    In every dirty case.
The ass now left—contention sore
    Arose between these two;
Tom thought him dead—the tinker swore
    "No more than I, or you."
All authors since do vary here,
    In this mysterious case,
Some write "he broke his neck," some swear
    "He out-liv'd this disgrace."
Be this as't will, we'll leave him here,
    'Twixt doubtful life and death;
Expecting time will make it clear,
    If he still live and breathe.

THE MORAL.

    So have I seen a Ministry bestride,
A Common-Wealth, in all the pomp of pride:
Who for the public good ne'er laid a scheme,
But dear self-interest was her only aim;
And nestl'd in the umbrage of a Crown,
Rode Jehu-like, nor dream'd of tumbling down.
    Brib'd S—n—rs, sold votes, to make us pay,
Three fifths to those, who squandered all away;
But now such taxes ne'er before were known,
Yet knaves cry up the times, when freedom's flown.
O glorious times! when candles, and the sun,
Must yield them thousands, or all's dark at noon!
    The red-streak apple golden juice must yield,
Like bits of paper, or the steril field:
We feel the yoke, and fatal ruin see,
Yet dare not struggle for lost l―――y.
    But tho' at present all things smoothly pass,
    Take care ye jockies, lest ye ride an ASS.

 
THE THREE CONCEITED BEAUTIES.
――♦――

A FABLE.

THREE country bumpkins chanc'd to meet,
    Whose phizzes look'd like vizards:
The first, the second thus doth greet
    Thy face is like some wizards!
The ugliest of the ugliest sort,
    Thou art, or I'm mistaken:
Sure nature made thee all for sport,
    Or sight has me forsaken.

But thou'rt all beauty in thy looks,
    And every feature's pleasing!
This I wou'd swear on twenty books,
    But for my sin encreasing.
For sure thy nose, thy mouth, thy eye,
    Wou'd suit no other mortal;
Pluto and Jove will throw thee by,
    On entering grim Death's portal.

The third, and ugliest of the three,
    Said, Lord! how you'r conceited!
I cannot stand a mute, and see,
    Two neighb'ring friends thus cheated.
I wonder why such mortals shou'd,
    About their beauty fall out;
Were I as ugly, I ne'er wou'd
    From my poor cottage crawl-out,
For with an ax, and owler-tree,
    I'd make two men as handsome:
Or live a slave in Tripoly
    And never sue for ransome.

THE MORAL.

This is an emblem of all human kind;
We every one to our own faults are blind:
Nay, tho' they're blazing, them we cannot see:
They're beauties all, or pass from censure free.

 
LANCASHIRE HOB, AND THE QUACK
DOCTOR.
――♦――
A TALE. 1762.

A thrifty earl was tir'd of lonely cot,
Because the tooth-ach he so often got:
Six teeth were all he had to chew his food;
All gave him pain, but none could do him good.
Hob hearing Rochdale town did then contain
A famous quack, that drew teeth without pain.
To him he flies, and, in a voice as loud
As Stentor's, thus bespoke him thro' the crowd:
"Ho—onist mon whot munneh gi' ye to drea
A tusk cot pleagues me awmust neet on dea?"
Six-pence the quack replies.—Hob spoke again,
"On conneh do't me, thinkneh, beawt mich pein!"
Ho, well enough.—Quoth Hob, "Suppose I two,
Yoan do for neenpunce?"  That I will not do.
"How monny then for twelvepunce winneh poo?"
All that thou hast.—Quoth Hob, "They're just enoo."
    The doctor took this for a country joke,
'Till he saw Hob hard pressing thro' the folk,
And mount the stage.—Quack now some mirth
        intends,
And slily for a pair of pincers sends;
Thinking he'd met one of those puny fools
Would run away from such inhuman tools.
Hob takes the pincers, "Vara weel," said he
"If they'n fit yo, I'm shure they win fit me."
    Hob now aloft is seated in a chair,
With open mouth, in which the Quack did stare;
Who laughing said, You have but six, I find,
And they're so loose, they'll wag with ev'ry wind.
"Better for yo, yo known; do yo yer job."
Yes, yes, and quickly too, my honest Hob;
Hold up your head—"Oh"—here is one you see;
Come, hold again—here's two—would you have
        three?
    "I think ot mon's a foo; we bargint plene,
Poo these aw eawt, or set thoose in ogen."
If that be th' case, hold up again, my friend,
Come, open wide, and soon the work we'll end.
    Hob now extends his spacious jaws so wide,
There's room for pincers, and good light beside.
Cries Quack, here's three, here's four, Hob bawls
        out "Oh,"
Hold, hold, says Quack, there's something more
        to do;
Come, gape again;—here's five—here's six—and
        th' last,
And now I'm sure thy tooth-ach pains are past.
"That's reet, quoth Hob, gi' me meh teeth, on then
I'll pey os freely os some roycher men."
The Quack complies, and Hob his twelve pence
        paid,
Then, in dismounting, to the mob thus said,
"They're arron foos ot six-pence pein for one,
While for o shilling I ha six jobs done.
But still they're bigger foos that live e pein,
Wheu good seawnd teeth mey choance to come
        ogen."
The doctor stares—and hastily replies
They come again! not till the dead shall rise,
One single tooth no more thy jaws shall boast,
I hold a crown thou ev'ry tooth hast lost.
"Tis done," quoth Hob: and stakes a Charles's
        crown,
The Quack as nimbly throws five shillings down.
Hob takes up all and in a neighbour's hand
Secures the total: then makes his demand.
    "Measter yo know eawr bet is, that I've lost
My teeth; and that I have not none to boast."
The Quack replies 'tis true; and what by that?
"Why, see I've six neaw o eh meh owd scull-hat.
Ne sur, if voan geaw wimmy whom, I'll shew
Yo e'ry tooth, of e meh meawth did groo."
    The Quack ill-vex'd he such a bite shou'd meet
Turn'd on his heel, while Hob said, 'Sur—good neet.'

 
THE PLURALIST AND OLD SOLDIER.
――♦――

A soldier maimed, and in the beggar's list,
Did thus address a well-fed Pluralist.
 

SOL.    At Gundalupe my leg and thigh I lost,

No pension have I, tho' its right I boast;
Your reverence please some charity bestow,
Heav'n will pay double—when you're there you know.

PLU.   Heaven pay me double! vagrant—know that I

Ne'er give to strollers, they're so apt to lye;
Your parish, and some work, would you become,
So haste away—or constable's your doom.

SOL.    Mayn't please your rev'rence, hear my case, and then,

You'll say I'm poorer than the most of men :
When Malbro siege Lisle, I first drew breath,
And there my father met untimely death;
My mother follow'd, of a broken heart,
So I've no friend, or parish, for my part.

PLU.    I say, begone:—with that he loudly knocks,

And timber-toe began to smell the stocks;
Away he stumps—but in a rood, or two,
He clear'd his weasand, and his thoughts broke thro'.

SOL.    This 'tis to beg of those who sometimes preach

Calm charity, and ev'ry virtue teach;
But their disguise, to common sense, is thin;
A pocket button'd':—hypocrite within.
Send me, kind heav'n, the well-tann'd captain's face
Who gives me twelve-pence, and a curse, with grace,
But let me not, in house, or lane, or street,
These treble-pension'd-parsons ever meet;
And when I die, may I still number'd be
With the rough soldier, to eternity.

 
JOHN OF GAUNT'S LEASES IMITATED.
APRIL, 1759.
――♦――

By this, R――d T――y, of B――d, doth grant
To John Clegg, the dyer, three things he doth want,
The dye-house, as he many years hath it held,
With leave for two tenters to stand i'th greave-field;
Which tenters do fence near the north and east sides;
One likewise the field into two now divides:
The brow, or the lower part, of the said field,
Together with all above mention'd, I yield
Unto the said dyer, for his life and mine,
Or whether lives longer: but then I confine
Him duly to pay me and mine, ev'ry year,
Three pounds of good money, and I'll taxes bear.
One half he at Whitsuntide strictly shall pay,
The other as duly each Martinmass Day.
    To shew that the dyer this lease did not steal,
    Behold, here I fix both my hand, and my seal.

Sign'd and Seal'd this Day, before
Two sober Mortals, and no more.

ANOTHER.
――♦――

I R—d T—y, of B—d, the Younger,
Do grant to John Collier, for whether lives longer,
The Wheat Field, and th' Bylings, the rent four
            pounds ten,
Which payment neglected, are both mine again:
That my Heirs may take notice, know all that this
            came
From my hearty good will, so I here write my name,
            Sign'd this Day, sans fraud, or guiles
            Before JAMES HASLAM,
                                and
                        J. FILDES.
Dec. 10, 1758.

 
THE ECCLESIASTICAL AND LAY-MISERS
SPECULUM.
A RYMING SERMON, ON THE DECEASE OF DR. FORSTER,
THE PLURALIST,
From James, Chap. v. Ver. 1, 2, 3.
――♦――

Hear this, ye gripes—ye blind infatite crew,
Whose hoards abound—whose heirs and friends
        are few,
And your own fate in Forster's glass here view.
    What's now become of all his griping schemes,
Of hoarding wealth, which foster'd silken dreams?
The flash is vanished like our northern gleams! (a)
    The sweetest consolations riches yield (b)
Fly quick, and whither, like a flower o'th' field (c)
You trust a broken reed—a crazy shield! (d)
    Woe to your misers—you that live at ease,
Who swallow up the poor, your wealth to increase,
Your mis'ries come: but tell me when they'll cease. (e)
    Can racking tenants, and your treasur'd wealth
Give calm content, or purchase balmy health?
Or bribe grim Death from creeping on by stealth?
    No,―here you're feeble!—tho' this gloomy thought
Torments the mind, that time will not be bought,
Tho' bags, and chests, with mighty gold are fraught.
    Consider, now, if sordid pelf will gain
A seat in bliss, or ease one dying pain?
If not, from squeezing of the poor refrain.
    Expand your narrow minds—your bags untie;
Nor tremble when you give a groat, for why?
Your God will slip you, when you come to die. (f)
    Relieve the wants, and cherish the sad heart
Of your poor neighbours, who endure the smart
Of meagre want, that pierces like a dart. (g)
    But Forster's gone, whose life we thought was
        wrong,
And tho' the Devil at the Court be throng,
He'll fetch—who starts?—another e'er't be long.

(a) Prov. xxiii. 5;    (b) Luke xii. 20;    (c) Luke vi. 26; .
(d) James i. 1, 11;    (e) James v. 1;       (f) Prov. xxiii. 5;
(g) Eccles. xi. 1, 2.

 
FROM A SCOTCH GENTLEMAN, AT GLASGOW,
TO HIS FRIEND IN MANCHESTER.
――♦――

THE ANSWER.

SIR,

Thau you hawfe-brether Scoat de ken
My peins to shaw awr toon, whot then,
Ye sleetght aur fawbricks, streets an toots
As net so stately queet as yours:
Yet knaw, an auld aux-cliest may hoold
Mare wealth, than screwtore gelt with goold:
And in aur streets mare baubees pass to
Yen another, than a Glasgow.
    But yet I've something to say mare man,
Ye de net leek awr awld-kirk organ;
Bet thinks a gude bog-peep soonds sweeter
Thon that at Rawme play'd in St. Peter:
Bet where's the marvel of aw this?
Trampets flay pigs, and ools, and geese.

 
AN ORIGINAL LETTER, FROM A WELCH
CONSTABLE TO A COUNTRY INN KEEPER.
――♦――

To ETWART TAVIS.

    I was have it Warrant from too Shustices Pace, which make Orter upon me, to make Orter upon you, to make your Peer, at Mrs. Worral of Ret-lion FAUR, upon the 17th tay of Shuly ness, to give cose why you was not take it te Licensse for sell Ale like unto oter Peoples—Ay—ant to give it a very goot cose too; why te Shustice which poth all too, is very goot mans, will not give it his warrant upon you to levy upon your Goots and Kattles—So te Worts of the Warrant is.

    Ay――ant inteet, I to tell unto you, it is a very pig shame why you was not take it like all te Popolls in to Comtozeth.  For what purpose our goot Prenin make it so goot Law, ant you was not mint hur?  Hit was as goot for the Prenin, cot pless hur, make it no Law, as make Law, was no poty keep hur.

    Ay――and you make te too pig fool upon our too Shustice ant tat is very true inteet――for they poth all too was sent to you two times, ant make spoke to you very fronteoll put you was very pig agry, ant passuant, ant say, cot tam our goot Prenin! Shustises! Parlamen! constapls an all!――Put now I will tell unto you, pi cot—the Shustices poth all took very much agar at you: ay ant inteet it will pe petter for you to come without making a pig troost; ay, ant a pig costis upon yourself ant will hurt your Fameel.――I do devise you to take my conger, or it will be worse for you: for you to know I was upon my swear to my Smyth: And pi cot hur will to hur.

    Tis is a very gut notice from me to you: ant I was summon hur upon to twenty tays of Shune, 1758.
 

 
A YORKSHIRE LETTER
TO AN ATTORNEY FOR HIS ADVICE.
――♦――

Sur.

    Ganging dreely odt' Lopn anent t' Brigg weet cout ads' ton Hond, an o Poke o' Masfledin on him, an a bran Spau New Skeele it tuther, ot I'd gust gean yan on Eleimpence for: griefly Illfav'r'd Key o Jonny Lunds lawpt fru amangst Whinns, Or I thout theyd baith a gaen full burr ower me: sa I puncht Dout to gar him gau odt toan side, an he bein Skaddle ga file a Lawp ok if war sore flay'd wod a swithurt ma intut Dyke.  Sa I war fain to lig t'Skeele ot Grund an click hawd odt Poke, an while I war doin tat, yan odt Kye whimled ower it, trade ent, on dang it to tatters.  Query Sur, Woont Jonny Lund be like to make Satisfackshon ?

 
EPITAPHS.

ON JO. GREEN, LATE SEXTON AT ROCHDALE.
――♦――

Here lies Jo. Green, who arch has been,
    And drove a gainful trade
With powerful Death, 'till, out of breath,
    He threw away his Spade.
When Death beheld his comrade yield,
    He, like a cunning Knave,
Came, soft as wind, poor Jo. behind,
    And push'd him int' his grave.
Reader, one tear, if thou hast one in store,
Since Jo. Green's tongue and chin can wag no more

 
ON MR. JOHN HAMER, MATHEMATICIAN,
LATE OF ROCHDALE.
――♦――

Ho, Passenger! see who lies here;
    Perhaps 'tis worth thy knowing;
'Tis Hamer, the Philosopher,
    Whose bellows have done blowing,
An arch and jovial wight he was,
    And skill'd in Newton's notions;
He could demonstrate by his glass,
    The twirl o'th' heavenly motions.
Copernicus's system he
    Prov'd true, by quart and candle;
And harvest-moons, familiarly,
    Like full punch-bowls did handle.
Ah me! what pity 'tis he's gone!
    Say, Mortals, how it could be,
That he was cramm'd beneath this stone,
    Where fools and misers should be.

 
ON DR. FORSTER, LATE VICAR OF ROCHDALE.
――♦――

Full three feet deep beneath this stone
    Lies our late Vicar Forster,
Who clipp'd his sheep to'th' very bone,
    But said no Pater Noster.
By ev'ry squeezing way, 'tis said,
    Eight hundred he rais'd yearly:
Yet not a six-pence of this paid
    To th' Curate――this looks queerly!
His tenants all now praise the Lord
    With hands lift up, and clapping,
And thank grim death, with one accord,
    That he has ta'en him napping.
To Lambeth's Lord now let us pray,
    No Pluralist he'll send us;
But should he do't, what must we say
    Why――Lord above defend us!

 
THE AUTHOR'S EPITAPH.
――♦――

A yard beneath this heavy stone,
Lies Jack of-all-Trades, good at none,
A Weaver first, and then School Master;
A Scrivener next: then Poetaster,
A Painter, Graver, and a Fluter,
And Fame doth whisper, a C――r;
An Author, Carver, and Hedge Clark:
E Whoo-who-whoo, whot whofoo wark!
He's laft um aw, to lie ith dark!

Spectatum admissirisum teneatis?

HOR. ARS. POET. ver. 5.