When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar, Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes, Give Mun a sup-forgot will be complaint; ON AN ARTIST Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags- Quoth Garrick-"No!" replied the man of rags: "The boards of Drury you and I have trod Did you and I together play?" "Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock- ON THE CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES. "Finish'd!" a disappointed artist cries, Thy impudence hath put me in a sweat- THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST West tells the world that Peter can not rhymePeter declares, point blank, that West can't paint: West swears I've not an atom of sublime I swear he hath no notion of a saint: And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass;” Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a pudding— No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag. I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: That he can talk a deal upon the art; Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his converse shows, His canvas almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too! BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. When Barry dares the President to fly on, Or like a louse, of mettle full, ON THE DEATH OF MR. HONE, R. A. There's one R.A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone- Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train And may its whale-like stomach feel no motion ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST. Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; Then staring round, all wild for praises panting, How that it found the daisy all itself! ANOTHER ON THE SAME. In simile if I may shine agen- With one poor miserable chick, Scraping away through thin and thick, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS. Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, TRAY'S EPITAPH. Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM. Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head I think very different, with thousands indeed, [The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E's favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.-P. P.] A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID. O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Your lord and son are still behind. EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS. THE POET'S CHOICE. I MURDER hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; The deities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; Than be the death of twenty. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. Here souter Hood in death does sleep;― To h―ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither. |