so by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd,

for half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;

by toil and famine worn to skin and bone,

lies, senseless of each ing bitch's son.

a little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,

and still his precious self his dear delight;

who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,

better than e'er the fairest she he meets;

much specious lore, but little understood,

(veneering oft outshines the solid wood),

his solid sense, by inches you must tell,

but mete his cunning by the scottish ell!

a man of fashion too, he made his tour,

learn'd “vive bagatelle et vive l'amour;”

so travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,

polish their grin—nay, sigh fordies' love!

his meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

still making work his selfish craft must mend.

* * * crochan came,

the old cock'd hat, the brown surtout—the same;

his grisly beard just bristling in its might—

'twas four long nights and days from shaving-night;

his unb'd, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch'd

a head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;

yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude,

his heart was warm, benevolent and good.

o dulness, portion of the truly blest!

calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest!

thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes

of fortune's pr frost, or torrid beams;

if mantling high she fills the golden cup,

with sober, selfish ease they sip it up;

conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve,

they only wonder “some folks” do not starve!

the grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog,

and thinks the mard a sad worthless dog.

when disappointment snaps the thread of hope,

when, thro' disastrous night, they darkling grope,

with deaf endurance ishly they bear,

and just conclude that “fools are fortune's care:”

so, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks,

strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

not so the idle muses' mad-cap train,

not such the workings of their moon-struck brain;

in equanimity they never dwell,

by turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell!