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Where 'midst the friendly joys that wait Philander's * hospitable gate, Freedom and genuine mirth I found, Sporting the jovial board around. 'I was there, with keen, though polith d jest You lat, a pleas'd and pleasing guest; With social ease a part sustain'd More hunourous far than e'er you feign'd. “ Take him," I cry'd, “ bright comic Maid, “ In all your native charms array’d; “ No longer shall my doubts appear.” When Clio whisper'd in my ear, “Go, bid it be no more disputed, « For what his talents best are suited: os In mirnic characters alone " Let others thine-but Garrick in his own.

* Rigby.

TO THE MEMORY OF

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

JANUARY 20, 1779.

THOU great reviver of the Attic fire!
Thou noblest patron

the tuneful lyre!
Thine was the power, and thine the gentle art,
To swell the passions, and subdue the heart !
For thee, the fairelt breast has heav'd a figh,
And the tear started from the brightest eye!
Learning and wit alike have bow'd the knee,
And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee!
On thee shall charm'd remembrance love to reft;
Come every Muse, and Arive to praise him bef!
For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay,
And the big tear has blotted out the lay!
Ye skilful nine, who shall the chraplet weave?
Hail his bright day! or mourn his tranquil eve!
Your Garrick hail!--he breathes, he lives again,
Lives in the thought, and breathes in every flrain !
Triumphant Fame enrols his acts on high,
And tells the mourner-Garrick cannot dis!

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THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

FIRST PUBLISHED BY MR. PERCY.

IT was a Friar of Orders Gray;

Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

Now Christ thee fave, thou reverend Friar,

I
pray

thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy fhrine

My true love thou didit fee.
And how fhould I know your true love

From any other one ?
O, by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his fandal fhoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curld,
And

eyne of lovely blue.

O Lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's deal and gone ! And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.

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Within these holy cloisters long

He languish'd and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,

| And plaining of her pride.

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier,

Six proper youths and tall,
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within

yon
kirk.

--yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth

And art thou dead and goire !
And did it thou die for love of me?

Break, cruel heart of stone!

Oweep not, Lady, weep not fo!

Some ghostly comfort seek :
Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy Friar,

My sorrow now reprove :
For I have lost the sweetest youth

That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy fad loss,

I'll e'er more weep and figh;
For thee I only wish to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep no more, Lady, weep no more,

Thy forrow is in vain;
For violets pluck'd, the sweetest showers:

Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as wiriged dreams do fly,

Why then Thould forrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is paft.

O say not so, thou holy Friar,

I

pray thee fay not fo: For fince iny true love dy'd for me,

'Tis meet my tears should flow,

And will he never come again?

Will he ne'er come again? Ah! no, he's dead, and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose;

The comeliest youth was he!
But he is dead, and laid in his grave:

Alas, and woe is me!

Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more,

Men were deceivers ever ; One foot on fea and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

Hadit thou been fond, he had been falfe,

And left thee fad and heavy;
For young men e'er were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy.
Now fay not fo, thou holy Friar,

I pray thee fay not io :
My love he had the truest heart,

O he was ever true!

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