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To bribe the base, to crush the good,

And bring them to their knees
To stick at nothing, or to stick

At what or whom you please
To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,

Forswear, and swear again-
To rise-Ah! void des Idées

Napoléoniennes.

THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND.

WILLIAM AYTOUN. AIB_" The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead,

Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague

These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,

For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,

Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart

A short time ago.

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Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,

Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,

And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,

To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.

Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,

To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.

In vain you pour into his ear

Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,

In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by

Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply 's a burning sigh,
And “What a mind it is!"
O Lord ! it is the greatest bore,

Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart

A short time ago.

I've heard her thoroughly described

A hundred times, I 'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,

And patiently endure;
He waxes strong upon his pangs,

And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way-
"Why you 're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,

Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart

A short time ago.

I really wish he'd do like me

When I was young and strong;
I formed a passion every week,

But never kept it long.
But he has not the sportive mood

That always rescued me,
And so I would all women could
Be banished o'er the sea.
For 'tis the most egregious bore,

Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart

A short time ago.

а

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES.

PARODIES AND BURLESQUES.

WINE.

JOHN GAY.
Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
Quæ scribuntur aquæ potoribus.

HOR

Of happiness terrestrial, and the source
Whence human pleasures flow, sing, heavenly Muse!
Of sparkling juices, of the enlivening grape,
Whose quickening taste adds vigor to the soul,
Whose sovereign power revives decaying nature,
And thaws the frozen blood of hoary Age,
A kindly warmth diffusing ;-youthful fires
Gild his dim eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His wrinkled visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative to mortal man,
With copious hand by bounteous gods bestow'd !

Bacchus divine! aid my adventurous song,
“That with no middle flight intends to soar :'
Inspir'd sublime, on Pegasean wing,
By thee upborne, I draw Miltonic air.
When fumy vapors clog our loaded brows
With furrow'd frowns, when stupid downcast eyes,
The external symptoms of remorse within,
Express our grief, or when in sullen dumps,
With head incumbent on expanded palm,
Moping we sit, in silent sorrow drown'd;
Whether inveigling Iymen has trepann'd
The unwary youth, and tied the gordian knot
Of jangling wedlock not to be dissolv'd;
Worried all day by loud Xantippe's din,
Who fails not to exalt him to the stars,
And fix him there among the branched crew

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