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His little sister weeping walk'd
No longer from thy window look-
The tear shall never leave my cheek,
A HUNTING SONG
And ushers in the morn;
And a-hunting we will go.
The wife around her husband throws
Her arms, and begs his stay;
My dear, it rains, and hails, and snows,
But a-hunting we will go.
'A brushing fox in yonder wood
Secure to find we seek:
And a-hunting we will go.'
Their steeds all spur and switch,
But a-hunting we will go.
At length his strength to faintness worn,
Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then a-drinking we will go.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
The darling of our crew;
For Death has broached him to.
His heart was kind and soft;
And now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare;
His Poll was kind and fair:
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,
Ah, many's the time and oft!
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
When He, who all commands,
The word to 'pipe all hands.'
In vain Tom's life has doffed;
His soul is gone aloft.
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature called for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd
The power of art without the show.
In misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
And lonely want retired to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The toil of every day supplied.
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
The single talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
Ling'ring year, at length is flown;
Great (Sir John), are now your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,
All the names that banish care;
Show the spirits of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly,
Joy to see their quarry fly;
There the lender, grave and sly.
Let it wander as it will;
Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonny blade carouses,
Pockets full, and spirits high-
Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian, friend, or mother,
Tell the woes of wilful waste,
You can hang or drown at last!
WREN lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,--
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
And wring his bosom, isto dic.
RETALIATION OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,