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I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable;
Your years have run to a great length,
I wish you joy though of your strength.'

* Hold,' says the farmer, 'not so fast,
I have been lame these four years past.”.

* 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,
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear.'
'Nay' then, the spectre stern rejoin'd,

“These are unjustifiable yearnings ;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your three sufficient warnings.
So come along, no more we'll part:
He said, and touch'd him with his dart;
And now old Dobson turning pale,
Yields to his fate--so ends my tale.

Mrs. Thrale.


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
Redeem him from his prison under ground.
His heirs might well, of all his wealth possessid,
Bestow to bury him one iron chest.
Plutus, the god of wealth, will joy to know
His faithful steward's in the shades below.
He walk'd the streets, and wore a threadbare cloke
He din'd and supp'd at charge of other folk;
And by his looks, had he held out his palms,
He might be thought an object fit for alms.
So, to the poor, if he refus'd his peif,
He us'd them full as kindly as himself.

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,
Blew his last breath to sink the lighter scale.'
He who so long was current, 'twould be strange
If he should now be cried down since his change.

The sexton shall green sods on thee bestow;
Alas, the sexton is thy banker now !
A dismal banker must that banker be,
Who gives no bills but of mortality. Swift.



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 ;
The king himself has follow'd her-

When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short-all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead-

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That, had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.



HOUSEs, churches, mix'd together,
Streets unpleasant in all weather;
Prisons, palaces contiguous,
Gates, a bridge, the Thames irriguous;
Gaudy things enough to tempt ye,
Showy outsides, insides empty;
Bubbles, trades, mechanic arts,
Coaches, wheelbarrows, and carts;
Warrants, bailiffs, bills unpaid,
Lords of laundresses afraid ;
Rogues that nightly rob and shoot men,
Hangmen, aldermen, and footmen ;
Lawyers, poets, priests, physicians,
Noble, simple, all conditions;

Worth beneath a threadbare cover,
Villany bedaub'd all over;
Women black, red, fair and grey;
Prudes, and such as never pray;
Handsome, ugly, noisy, still,
Some that will not, some that will;
Many a beau without a shilling,
Many a widow not unwilling,
Many a bargain if you strike it:
This is London :-how d'ye like it?

John Bancks.


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

drink on,

Till the dropsy had swellid him as big as a ton.
The more he took physic, the worse still he grew,
And tapping was now the last thing he could do.
Affairs at this crisis, and doctors come down,
He began to consider-so sent for his son.
"Tom, see by what courses I've shorten'd my life,
I'm leaving the world ere I am forty and five;
More than probable’tis, that in twenty-four hours,
This manor, this house, and estate will be yours:
My early excesses may teach you this truth,
That 'tis working for death to driuk hard in one's

youth.' Says Tom, who's a lad of a generous spirit, And not like young rakes, who're in haste to inherit,

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