Gracie, thou art a man of worth, O be thou Dean for ever! May he be damned to hell henceforth, Who fauts thy weight ormeasure!

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardonessp, With grateful, lifted eyes, Who taught that not the soul alone, Butbodytoo shall rise; For had He said "the soul alone From death I will deliver," Alas, alas! O Cardoness, Then hadst thou lain for ever.

"Praise Woman still," his lordship roars, "Deserv'd ornot, nomatter?" Butthee, whom all my soul adores, Ev'n Flattery cannot flatter: Maria, all my thought and dream, Inspires my vocal shell; The more I praise my lovely theme, The more the truth I tell.

When Morine, deceas'd, to the Devil went down, 'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; "Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, "that crown shall wear never, I grant thou'rt as wicked, butnot quite so clever."

What dost thou in that mansion fair? Flit, Galloway, and find Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, The picture of thy mind. No Stewart art thou, Galloway, The Stewarts 'll were brave; Besides, the Stewarts were butfools, Not one of them a knave. Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, Thro' many a far-fam'd sire! So ran

Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character Sweet naivete of feature, Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, Thou art acting butthyself. Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning Nature, torturing art; Loves and Graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

At Brownhill we always getdainty good cheer, And plenty of bacon each day in the year; We've a'thing that's nice, and mostly in season, Butwhy always Bacon-come, tell me a reason?

Ask why God made the gem so small? And why so huge the granite?- Because God meant mankind should set That higher value on it.

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; Butwhen he approached where poor Francis lay moaning, And saweach bed-post with its burthen a-groaning, Astonish'd, confounded, cries Satan-"By God, I'll want him, ereI take such a damnable load!"

O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard'st thou yongroan?-proceed nofurther, 'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther.