A pikeaxe and a spade,

And eke a shrouding sheet, A house of clay for to be made For such a guest most meet.

Methinks I hear the clerk,

That knolls the careful knell, And bids me leave my weary work, Ere nature me compel.

My keepers knit the knot,

That youth doth laugh to scorn, Of me that shall be clean forgot, As I had ne'er been born.

Thus must I youth give up,
Whose badge I long did wear;
To them I yield the wanton cup,
That better may it bear.

Lo here the bared skull;

By whose bald sign I know, That stooping age away shall pull What youthful age did sow.

For beauty with her band,

These crooked cares had wrought,

And shipp'd me into the land

From whence I first was brought.

And ye that 'bide behind,
Have ye none other trust?
As ye of clay were cast by kind,
So shall ye turn to dust.

Vocal Magazine.

SONG.

WHY will Florella, when I gaze,
My ravish'd eyes reprove?
And hide 'em from the only face
They can behold with love?

To shun her scorn, and ease my care,
I seek a nymph more kind;
And while I rove from fair to fair,

Still gentle usage find.

But oh! how faint is ev'ry joy,
Where nature has no part;
New beauties may my eyes employ,
But you engage my heart.

So restless exiles, doom'd to roam,
Meet pity ev'ry where,

Yet languish for their native home,

Tho' death attends them there.

Mr. Budgell.

VERSES TO A LADY,

ENCLOSING A TICKET FOR COX'S MUSEUM.

You have read, my dear madam, of wonderful sights,
In French fairy tales, and th' Arabian nights,
Where of palaces splendid, pavilions of gold,
And vases of agate, and amber we're told;

Of fine glittering chariots, drawn by gilt dragons,
And elephants drawing us fine broad-wheel'd waggons;
Of pearl-dropping linnets, and gem-breeding caskets,
Of rose diamond fountains, and brilliants in baskets,
Of emeralds, rubies, and saphires so bright,
That they rival the stars with their lustre and light.
So greatly romantic indeed what's related,
We think the fine things all by fancy created;

But of William Street's charming fine sight take a view,
And you'll own the strange stories are probably true,
For they're realiz'd all, as you'll say when you see 'em,
In Cor's superb and surprizing Museum.

Enclos'd is your passport, take Bell in your hand,

And feast on the wonders of this fairy land.

Freeman's Hibernia.

VERSES

WRITTEN IN AN ALMANACK,

Sent as a New-year's Gift to a Young Lady.

LONG time revolving in my mind,
A proper New-year's gift to find,

At length with compliments o' the season,
I send you this-and here's my reason.
I know you'll cry now, " mind his airs,
'Tis well it wa'n't a book of prayers;
If all his thought cou'd find no better,
He might have spar'd his gift and letter.
A present this for gay nineteen!

I vow it puts one in the spleen."
But soft awhile, hear all I can say,
And then I'm sure you'll praise my fancy.
This book, with outside gay and spruce,
Is yet more valu’d for its use;

Which shews that you, however fair,
Should make your mind your

chiefest care. Besides, tho' now so useful deem'd, Tho' sought by all, by all esteem'd, (For here we see as in a glass, How quick the fleeting moments pass, And catch with ecstasy of soul,

The various seasons as they roll;

See Spring, led on by blooming May,
Summer, in flow'ry mantle gay;

See Autumn's harvest load the plain,
While sober Winter shuts the scene.)
Tho' thus its merit all admire,

The Lord, the Farmer, and the Squire,
Yet, if lock'd up, but while the sun
Once more his annual course shall run,
'Twill then, alas! be out of date,
And find a sad reverse of fate;
Admir'd no more, but left to rot,
Useless to all, by all forgot.

So if a maid,-but oh! that you May never prove the maxim true, From pride and cruelty, disdains To hear the vows of constant swains, Smiles at their sighs, and scorns their pains, Too soon, O dire revenge, they find Time stealing on her from behind; She then her cruelty repents, She then her wasted youth laments; While they, exulting, mock her cares, And all her sighs are vain as theirs.

Freeman's Journal.