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Lo! in my shirt, on you these eyes I fix, Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks ; Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much
approve: Your spittings, pawings, high-rais'd rumps, Swell’d tails, and Merry-Andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.
' How sweetly roll your gooseb’rry eyes, As loud you tune your am'rous cries,
And, loving, scratch each other black and blue ! No boys, in wantonness, now bang your backs; No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax, (you.
But all the moon-light world seems made for
Singers of Israel ! You no parsons want
To tie the matrimonial cord;
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix .
You want no furniture, alas !
Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, or ladle; No iron, pewter, copper, tin, or brass ;
Nor nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle, Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins, To rock the staring offspring of your loins.
Nor of the lawyers you have need,
Ye males, before you seek your bed, To settle pin-money on Madam:
No fears of cuckoldom,- Heav'n bless ye!
Are ever harbour'd to distress ye, Tormenting people since the days of Adam.
No schools you want for fine behaving,
No powdering, painting, washing, shaving, No night-caps snug, no trouble in undressing,
Before you seek your strawy nest, . Pleas’d in each other's arms to rest, To feast on love, Heav’n’s greatest blessing.
Good Gods! Ye sweet love-chanting rams!
How nimble are you with your hams To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And, peeping down the chimney's hole,
Pour, in a tuneful cry, th’ empassion’d soul, Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up.
Who, sweet obliging female, far from coy,
And scorning 'midst the ashes more to mope,
Without th' assistance of a rope.
Dear mousing tribe, my limbs are waxing cold
Singers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu! I do suppose you need not now be told,
How much I wish that I was one of you.
IMITATION OF CATULLUS.
WHY will my wanton maid inquire,
ON LORD NELSON,
RETIR’D from tumult and the public care, While modest Nelson breathes his Merton air, Why will a Nation sigh to give him pow'r, And load with anxious weight his easy hour ? Why force the Hero from his rich repose, Whose happy spirit calm'd that Nation's woes ? Yet, mad for War, should hostile hosts arise, Fierce for th' attack, the British Eagle flies, Careless of case, and DANGER's spectre form, Pants for his prey, and triumphs in the storm. Pleas’d with his fate, he crawls not to be seen, Too proud to teaze with pray’r a King or Queen; To flatter, with a parasitic face, And trip up FRIENDSHIP's heels to gain a place. The Man who daring rush'd in thunder forth, And smote th’imperious Tyrants of the North ;