Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.
Half killed with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dobson cries.
"So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies :
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
"Since I was here before,
""Tis six-and-thirty years at least, "And you are now fourscore."
"So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; "To spare the aged would be kind:
However, see your search be legal;
"And your authority-is't regal?
"Else you are come on a fool's errand, "With but a secretary's warrant.
"Besides, you promised me Three Warnings, "Which I have looked for nights and mornings; "But for that loss of time and ease,
"I can recover damages."
"I know," cries Death, "that at the best, "I seldom am a welcome guest;
"But don't be captious, friend, at least ; "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 rejoined, ،، 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 touched him with his dart. And now Old Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.
A CONTEST BETWEEN THE NOSE AND
THE EYES.
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning;
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear,
And your Lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,
That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.
Then, holding the spectacles up to the court-
Your Lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
Again, would your Lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again,)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,)
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise
So his Lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut
-ALL our praises why should Lords engross?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any
sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? Enter but his door,
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines, to swell that boundless charity?
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possessed-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush Grandeur, blush! proud courts withdraw your blaze!
Ye little stars! hide your diminished rays.
And what! no monument, inscription, stone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough that virtue filled the space between,
Proved by the ends of being, to have been.
It was a summer's evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done ;
And he, before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,
In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,
""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about; And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out!
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory."
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin, he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby, died;
But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
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