Saunders, said I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale, He would come into our Kitchen, and I would pin

a Dish-clout to his Tail. And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct

this Letter, For I write but a sad Scrawl, but my Sister Marget

The writes better. Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my

Mafter comes from Prayʻrs, And see now, it strikes Ten, and I hear him coming

up Stairs :

Whereof I could fay more to your Verses, if I

could write written Hand ; And so I remain in a civil Way, your Servant to command,

MARY.

A quibbling ELEGY on the wor

mipful. Judge BOAT.

Written in the Year 1723.

TS

O mournful Ditties, Clio, change thy Note,

Since cruel Fate hath funk our Justice Boat; Why should he fink, where nothing seem'd to press? His Lading little, and his Ballast less. Tost in the Waves of this tempestuous World, At length, his Anchor fixt, and Canvas furld,

To

To * Lazy-Hill retiring from his Court,
At his * Ring's-End he founders in the Port ;
With + Water fillid, he could no longer float,
The common Death of many a stronger Boat. :

A Post so fillid, on Nature's Laws entrenches, Benches on Boats are plac’d, not Boats on Benches. And

yet our Boat, how shall I reconcile it? Was both a Boat, and in one Sense a Pilot. With ev'ry Wind he saild, and well cou'd tack : Had many Pendents, but abhorr'd a $ Jack. He's gone, although his Friends began to hope, That he might yet be lifted by a Rope.

BEHOLD the awful Bench, on which he fat, He was as hard, and pond'rous Wood as that: Yet, when his Sand was out, we find at last, That, Death has over set him with a Blaft. Our Boat is now fails to the Stygian Ferry, There to supply old Charon's leaky Wherry: Charon in him will ferry Souls to Hell ; A Trade, our || Boat hath practis'd here so well, And, Cerberus hath ready in his Paws, Both Pitch and Brimstone to fill up his Flaws ; Yet, spight of Death and Fate, I here maintain, We may place Boat in his old Post again,

The

** Two Villages near the Sea, where Boatmen and Seamen live.

+ It is said that he dyed of a Dropsy.
$ A Cant Word for a Jacobite.
In hanging People as a Judge.

The Way is thus, and well deserves your Thanks :
Take the three strongest of his broken Planks,
Fix them on high, conspicuous to be seen,
Form'd like the Triple-Tree near * Stephen's-Green;
And, when we view it thus, with Thief at End on't,
We'll cry ; look, here's our Boat, and there's the

Pendent.

The Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ Η.

TER E lies Judge Boat within a Coffin,

Pray, gentle Folks, forbear your Scoffing.
A Boat a Judge! yes, where's the Blunder!
A wooden Judge is no such Wonder.
And, in his Robes, you must agree,
No Boat was better deckt than He.
'Tis needless to describe bim fuller,
In port, he was an able + Sculler.

* Where the Dublin Gallows ftands.

+ Query, Whether the Author meant Scholar, and wilfully miltook ?

On D RE A M S.

An Imitation of PETRONIUS.

Somnia, quæ mentes ludunt volitantibus umbris, &c:

Written in the Year 1724;

T

HOSE Dreams that on the filent Night

intrude,
And with false flitting Shades our Minds delude.
Jove rever sends us downward from the Skies,
Nor can they from infernal Mansions rise ;
But all are mere Productions of the Brain,
And Fools consult Interpreters in vain.

For, when in Bed we rest our weary Limbs The Mind, unburthen'd, sports in various Whims. The busy Head with mimick Art runs o’er The Scenes and Actions of the Day before.

THE drowsy Tyrant by his Minions led,
To regal Rage devotes some Patriot's Head.
With equal Terrors, not with equal Guilt,
The Murd'rer dreams of all the Blood he spilt.

THE

The Soldier smiling hears the Widow's Cries, And stabs the Son before the Mother's Eyes. With like Remorse his Brother of the Trade, The Butcher, feels the Lamb beneath his Blade.

The Statesman rakes the Town to find a Plot, And dreams of Forfeitures by Treason got. Nor less Tom T—-dman of true Statesman Mold, Collects the City Filth in Search of Gold.

ORPHANS around his Bed the Lawyer sees, And takes the Plaintiff's and Defendant's Fees. His Fellow Pick-Purse, watching for a Job, Fancies his Fingers in the Cully's Fob.

The kind Physician grants the Husband's Prayers, Or gives Relief to long-expecting Heirs. The sleeping Hangman ties the fatal Noose Nor unsuccessful waits for dead Mens Shoes.

The grave Divine, with knotty Points perplext, As if he were awake, nods o'er hiş Text: While the fly Mountebank attends his Trade, Harangues the Rabble, and is better paid.

The hireling Senator of modern Days, Bedaubs the guilty Great with nauseous Praise: And Dick the Scavenger with equal Grace, Flirts from his Cart the Mud in Wiple's Face.