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The bud inserted in the rind,
The bud of peach or rose,
The stock whereon it grows
I seize thy name in haste,
Lest this should prove the last.
Should be the poet's heart;
Than ever blazed by art.
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG, TO A TUNE NEVER SUNG BEFORE.
1 I sing of a journey to Clifton,
We would have perform'd if we could,
Šlee sla slud,
Stuck in the mud, Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood ! 2 So away we went slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs. ’T is near as good walking as riding, When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about, But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!
3 Well! now I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves !
'T is not in the wind ; We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.
4 I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded and penn'd, Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end.
The longer we stay,
The longer we may ;
5 But now I begin to be frighted :
If I fall, what a way I should roll !
'Tis a common affair ;
6 Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do.
But, by the bye,
SHE. 7 But should we get there, how shall we get home ?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past, Slipping and sliding; and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruin'd at last.
Oh this lane !
Now it is plain
8 Stick fast there, while I go and look.
Don't go away, for fear I should fall!
I have examined it every nook,
Come, wheel round;
The dirt we have found
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be
FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.
WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream, There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blas
pheme. In subterraneous caves his life he led, Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread. When on a day, emerging from the deep, A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !)
The wages of his weekly toil he bore
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies !
the day Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they.
No,” said the penitent: “such words shall share This breath no more ; devoted now to prayer. 0! if thou seest, (thine eye the future sees,) That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these, Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel, Ere yet this heart relapses into steel; Now take me to that Heaven I once defied, Thy presence, thy embrace !”—He spoke and died !
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.
That ocean you have late survey'd,
Those rocks I too have seen ;
You tranquil and serene.
Saw stretch'd before your view,
No longer such to you.
Upon the dangerous coast,
Of all my treasure lost.
And found the peaceful shore;
Come home to port no more.
What is there in the vale of life