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I little thought you'd still be able
* Hold,' says the farmer, 'not so fast,
* And no great wonder,' Death replies, • However, you still keep your eyes ; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' • Perhaps,' says Dobson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.'
"This is a shocking story, faith, Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death ; * Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.'
* There's none,' cries he, and if there were,
“These are unjustifiable yearnings ;
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF DEMAR THE USU
RER, WHO DIED THE 6TH OF JULY, 1720. Know all men by these presents, Death the tamer, By mortgage hath secur'd the corpse of Demar :
Nor can four hundred thousand sterling pound
Where'er he went he never saw his betters; Lords, knights, and 'squires, were all his humble
debtors; And under hand and seal the Irish nation Were forc'd to own to him their obligation.
He that could once have half a kingdom bought, In half a minute is not worth a groat. His coffers from the coffin could not save, Nor all his interest keep him from the grave. A golden monument could not be right, Because we wish the earth upon him light.
O London tavern *! thou hast lost a friend, Though in thy walls he ne'er did farthing spend : He touch'd the pence, when others touch'd the pot; The band that sign’d the mortgage paid the shot.
Old as he was, no vulgar known disease, Op him could ever boast a power to seize : •+ But, as he weigh’d his gold, grim Death in spite Cast in his dart, which made three moidores light;
A tavern in Dublin, where Demar kept his office. + These four lines were written by Stella.
And as he saw his darling money fail,
The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning, And never follow'd wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satios new,
With hoop of monstrous size; She never slumber'd in her pew
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more ;
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short-all ;
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
A DESCRIPTION OF LONDON.
HOUSEs, churches, mix'd together,
Worth beneath a threadbare cover,
THE DROPSICAL MAN.
A JOLLY brave toper, who could not forbear, Though his life was in danger, old port and stale
beer, Gave the doctors the hearing-but still would
Till the dropsy had swellid him as big as a ton.
youth.' Says Tom, who's a lad of a generous spirit, And not like young rakes, who're in haste to inherit,