N every age, and each profeffion,
Men err the most by prepoffeffion;
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We foon applaud what we deride,
And penitence fucceeds to pride.-
A certain Baron on a day,
Having a mind to fhew away,
Invited all the Wits and Wags,
Foot, Maffey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious ftage,
For the Choice Spirits of the age;
But above all, among the reft,
There came a Genius who profefs'a
To have a curious trick in ftore,
Which never was perform'd before.
'Thro' all the town this foon got air,
And the whole houfe was like a fair;
But foon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
"Twas all expectance, all fufpence,
And filence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig,
And with fuch truth TOOK OFF a Pig,
All fwore 'twas serious, and no joke,
For doubtlefs underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd fome grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.
A fearch was made, no pig was found—
With thund'ring claps the feats refound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With-O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Groufe, a country clown,
Who yet knew fomething of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter.
The morrow came-the croud was greater➡
But prejudice and rank ill-nature
Ufurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hifs, and break the benches.
The mimic took his ufual station,
And squeak'd with general approbation.
Again, encore encore! they cry-
"Twas quite THE THING 'TWAS VERY HIGH: Old Groufe conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real Pig beneath his jacket
Then forth he came-and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd Pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.
D
All bellow'd out-'twas very fad!
Sure never ftuff was half fo bad!
That like a Pig !-each cry'd in fcoff,
Pfhaw! Nonfenfe! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hifs'd, and catcall'd from the house.-
Soft ye, a word before I go,”
Quoth honeft Hodge-and ftooping low
Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the ftupid, partial croud.:
Behold, and learn from this poor creature,
How much you Critics know of Nature."
Y a prattling ftream, on a Midsummer's eve, Where the woodbine and jeff'mine their boughs inter
Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair.
She brought me the vi'let that grows on the hill,
The vale-dwelling lilly, and gilded jonquill:
But fuch languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Juft warm from the lips of the lad that I love.
She brought me, his faith and his truth to display,
The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay :
But why these to me, who've his constancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.
The next was a gift that I could not contemn,
For fhe brought me two roses that grew on a stem :
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confeft,
So I kifs'd 'em, and prefs'd 'em quite close to my break.
Shebrought me a fun-flow'r---This, fair one's,your due;
For it once was a maiden, and love-fick like
Oh! give it me quick, to my fhepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the fun.
The LASS with the GOLDEN LOCKS.
No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a flave to gay Venus I've fold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks]
And will fing to my lafs with the golden locks.
Tho' o'er her white forehead the gilt treffes flow,
Like the rays of the fun on a hillock of snow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the tafte of the antients, 'tis claffical hair :
And tho' witlings may fcoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll fing to my lafs with the golden locks.
To live and to love, to converfe and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kiffes and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lafs of the golden locks.
Than the swan in the brook fhe's more dear to my fight,
Her mien is more ftately, her breast is more white,
Her fweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lafs bears the bell with her golden locks.
V.
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe,
She shall eafe my fond heart, and shall footh my foft pain;
While thousands of rivals are fighing in vain ;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox,
While I have the lafs with the golden locks.
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