V.

I once was perfuaded a venture to make: A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ;. But the purfy old landlord juft waddl'd up ftairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

VI.

"Life's cares they are comforts*”.

down

-a maxim laid

By the Bard, what d'ye, call him, that wore the

black gown;

And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair;
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heaven of a care..

A Stanza added in a Mafon Lodge.

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, And honours mafonic prepare for to throws, May ev'ry true brother of the Compafs and Square Have a big belly'd bottle when preffed with care..

Young's Night Thoughts.

EPITAPHS.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here Sowter****in death does fleep

To H-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON A NOISY POLEMIC.

Below thir ftanes lie Jemmie's banes;
O Death, its my opinion,
Thou ne'er took fuch a bleth'rin b-tch
Into thy dark dominion!

ON WEE JOHNIE.

Hie jacet wee Johnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know,

That Death has murder'd. Johnie!

And here his body lies fu' low

For faul he ne'er had ony.

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity ftains,

Draw near with pious rev'rence, and attend! Here lie the loving Hufband's dear remains,

The tender Father, and the gen'rous Friend. The pitying heart that felt for human Woe; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human Pride; The Friend of Man, to vice alone a foe; For ev'n his failings lean'd to Virtue's fide.**

FOR R. A. ESQ.

Know thou, O ftranger to the fame

Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name! (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. ESQ.

G

The poor man weeps here Gn fleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam'd:

But with fuch as he, where'er he be,
May I be fav'd or d-d!

*Goldsmith.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-infpired fool,

Owre faft for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to feek, owre proud to fnool,
Let him draw near:

And owre this graffy heap fing dool,
And drap a tear.

107 Is there a Bard of ruftic fong,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng,

O, pafs not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a figh.

Is there a man, whofe judgment clear,
Can others teach the courfe to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here paufe-and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave!

The poor inhabitant below,

Was quick to learn and wife to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And fofter flame;

But thoughtlefs follies laid him low,

And ftain'd his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy foul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low purfuit,

Know, prudent, cautious, felf controut

Is Wifdom's root.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.