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may we not; as we have been accustomed, give to every thing its due and proper fhare of attention? I hope, Sir, that in a year or two (it would be prefumption to expect it focner) we may again hear of Pitt and Fox, Suwarrow and Bonaparte, Jacobins and Anti-Jacobins, Whigs and Tories, High Church and Low Church, Prefbyterians and Independents, for the gentlemen; and caps, bonnets, flounces, ribands and fathes, elopements and crim. cons. for the ladies, as ufual; and that it may one day be as common to fay "How do you do?" as it is now to say "How do you like Pizarro ?”

I am, Sir, yours, &c.

A LOVER OF VARIETY.

PARODY UPON GRAY'S CELEBRATED ODE OF "THE BARD."

BY THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.

[This Parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, near five and twenty years ago; and arofe from the cir cumstance of the Author's Barber coming to late too dress him at his lodgings, at the fhop of Mr. Jackfon, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College; by which he loft his dinner in the Hall: when, in imitation of the defpairing Bard, who prophefied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curfes upon the whole race of Barbers, predict ing their ruin in the fimplicity of a future generation.]

THE BARBER.

A Fragment of a Pindaric Ode, from an old Manuscript in the Museum, which Mr. GRAY certainly had in his e̟ e when he wrote his "BARD."

I.

"RUIN feize thee, fcoundrel Coe!

Confufion on thy frizzing wait;

Hadft thou the only comb below,

Thou never more shouldft touch my pate.

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Club

Club nor queue, nor twisted tail,

Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, Barber! fhall avail
To fave thy horfe-whipp'd back from daily fears;
From Cantabs' curfe, from Cantabs' tears!"
Such were the founds that o'er the powder'd pride
Of Coe the Barber scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the fteep of Jackson's flippery lane
He wound with puffing march his toilfome, tardy way.

II.

In a room where Cambridge town

Frowns o'er the kennel's ftinking flood, Rob'd in a flannel powd'ring-gown,

With hagard eyes poor Erskine ftoud;

(Long his beard, and blouzy hair,

Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air ;)
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud forrows of his dinner.

"Hark! how each ftriking clock and tolling bell
With awful founds the hour of eating tell!
O'er thee, O Coe! their dreaded notes they wave,
Soon fhall fuch founds proclaim thy yawning grave:
Vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day,
The grace already faid, the plates all fwept away.

"Cold is Beau ** 's tongue,

III.

That footh'd each virgin's pain;

Bright perfuni'd M** has cropp'd his head:

Almacks! you moan in vain :

Each youth whofe high toupee

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capt head,
In humble Tyburn top we fee,

Efplash'd with dirt and fun-burnt face;
Far on before the ladies mend their pace,
The Macaroni fneers, and will not fee.
Dear loft companions of the coxcomb's art,
Dear as a turkey to these famith'd eyes,
Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart,
Ye funk amidst the fainting Miffes' cries-
No more I weep-they do not fleep:
At yonder ball, a sturdy band,
I feem them fit; they linger yet,
Avengers of fair Nature's hand;

With me in dreadful resolution join,

To crop with one accord, and starve their curfed line."

IV.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-fheet of barbers' race; Give ample room and verge enough

Their lengthen'd lantern jaws to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,

When all their fhops fhall echo with affright;
Loud fcreains fhall through St. James's turrets ring,
To fee, like Eton boy, the King!

Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws

That fcrape the foretops of our aching heads;
No longer England owns thy fribblish laws,
No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds.
They wait at Dover for the first fair wind,
Soup-meagre in the van, and fnuff; roaft beef behind.

v.

66 Mighty barbers, mighty lords,

Low on a greafy bench they lie!
No pitying heart or purfe affords
A fixpence for a mutton-pye!

Is the mealy 'prentice fled?

Poor Coe is gone all fupperlefs to bed.

The fwarm that in thy fhop each morning fat,
Comb their lank hair on forehead flat:

Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux,
While vainly strutting through a filly land,

In foppifh train the puppy Barber goes;

Lace on his fhirt, and money at command, Regardless of the skulking bailiff's fway,

That, hid in fome dark court, expects his ev'ning prey.

VI.

"The porter-mug fill high,

Bak'd curls and locks prepare ;

Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live:

Close by the greafy chair

Fell thirst and famine lie,

No more to Art will beauteous Nature give.

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Heard ye the gang of Fielding fay,

Sir John *, at laft we've found their haunt; To defperation driv'n by hungry want, Through the cramm'd laughing Pit they steal their way? Ye tow'rs of Newgate! London's lafting fhame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe the blackfmith's + fame, And spare the grinning Barber's chuckle head.

VII.

"Rafcal! we tread thee under foot,

(Weave we the woof; the thread is spun :) Our beards we pull out by the root;

(The web is wove-your work is done.)" "Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me uncurl'd, undinner'd, here to mourn.
Through the broad gate that leads to College Hall
They melt, they fly, they vanifh all,

But, oh! what happy fcenes of pure delight,
Slow moving on, their fimple charms unroll!
Ye rapt'rous vifions, fpare my aching fight;
Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my foul!
No more our long-loft Coventry we wail:

All hail! ye genuine forms; fair Nature's iffue, hail!

VIII.

"Not frizz'd and fritter'd, pinn'd and roll'd,
Sublime their artlefs locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,

Without their têtes and wigs appear.
In the midft a form divine,

Her drefs bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line,
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.

What fylphs and fpirits wanton through the air!
What crowds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy fepulchre, great Penn! oh hear!
A fcene like this might animate thy clay.

Simplicity, now foaring as fhe fings,

Waves in the eye of Heav'n her quaker-colour'd wings.

*Sir John Fielding, the active Police Magiftrate of that day. Ce's father, the blacksmith of Cambridge.

IX.

"No more toupees are feen
That mock at Alpine height,

And queues with many a yard of riband bound,
All now are vanish'd quite.

No tongs, nor torturing pin,

But ev'ry head is trimm'd quite fnug around:
Like boys of the cathedral choir,

Curls, fuch as Adam wore, we wear,

Each fimpler generation blooms more fair,

Till all that's artificial fhall expire.

Vain puppy boy! think'st thou yon' effenc'd cloud,
Rais'd by thy puff, can vie with Nature's hue?
To-morrow fee the variegated crowd

With ringlets fhining like the morning dew.
Enough for me: with joy I fee

The different dooms our fates affign:

Be thine to love thy trade and starve;

To wear what Heaven beftow'd be mine."

He faid, and beadlong from the trap-ftairs' height,
Quick through the frozen ftreet he ran in fhabby plight.

THE MILITARY TAYLOR.

[From the Lady's Monthly Museum.}

MR. EDITOR,

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S you profefs to be the friend and patron of our fex exclufively, I am encouraged to state my awkward fituation, arifing from an abufe of that most Jaudable principle which has fo nobly stimulated the other fex to unite in arms for the defence of their country. As this evil is become very general, and is caused by perfons ranking themselves as Volunteers, without having one requifite for a military character, it demands the more immediate redrefs. I hope, therefore, you will take the following circumstances into your confideration, and adopt fuch means of reproof as may tend to relieve our fex from the inconvenien

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