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For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the

rage

with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This diff'rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf
Instead of others damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;

In which all modern bards

agree, Being each as great a thief as he: But e'en this deity's existence Shall lend

my

simile assistance. Our modern bards! why what a pox Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

AN

ELEGY

ON THE

DEATH OF A MAD DOG,

Good people all, of ev'ry sort,

Give ear unto my song ;
And if you find it wond'rous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes; The naked ev'ry day he clad,

When he put on his clothes,

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And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mąd, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighb’ring streets

The wond'ring neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To ev'ry christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die,

But soon a wonder came to light,

That shew'd the rogues they ly’d; The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that dy’d.

THE

CLOWN'S REPLY.

John Trott was desir’d by two witty peers, To tell them the reason why asses had ears ? "An't please you,” quoth John, “ I'm not given to

letters, “ Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your

graces, As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on asses.

EDINBURGH, 1753.

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