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My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
They both of them merry, and authors like you;
In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what yex'd me most, was that d-'d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue:
And," madam," quoth he," may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;
Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O-ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty"-" a pasty!" repeated the Jew; "I don't care if I keep a corner for❜t too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot; "Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out;
To the Memory of a young Lady.
YET do I live! O how shall I sustain
This vast unutterable weight of woe?
My dearest Emma's dead;
These eyes, these tear-swoln eyes beheld her fall.
I, who the tedious absence of a day
Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's sight; Would chide the ling'ring moments for delay, And fondly blame the slow return of night; How, how shall I endure
(O misery past a cure!)
Hours, days, and years, successively to roll,
Was she not all my fondest wish could frame?
With downcast, streaming eyes,
Stood the stern frown of supercilious brows,
Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her
Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train
The source of my complaint,
My soul may own th' impassion'd line;
A flood of tears may gush to my relief,
And from my swelling heart discharge this load of grief.
Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear
To wound my ears with the sad tales you tell; "How good she was, how gentle, and how fair!" In pity cease-alas! I know too well How in her sweet expressive face
Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind,
Yet heighten'd by exterior grace,
Of manners most engaging, most refin'd.
No piteous object could she see,
But her soft bosom shar'd the woe,
While smiles of affability
Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow.
Whate'er the emotions of her heart,
Still shone conspicuous in her eyes,
Stranger to every female art,
Alike to feign or to disguise :
And, oh! the boast how rare!
In secret silence lodg'd inviolate there.
Relentless death! that, steel'd to human woe, With murderous hands deals havock on mankind, Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,
And leave such wretched multitudes behind?
Hark! groans come wing'd on every breeze!
But, oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place
Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,
Where were the delegates of heaven, oh, where!
Had Innocence or Virtue been their care,
My sorrows to beguile,
When Torture's keenest rage she prov'd;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a husband's
How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
My hand she press'd wet with her falling tears,
Ah, my lov'd lord, the transient scene is o'er,