SONNET III.

ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY.

AND this reft house is that, the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt..
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade!
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What tho' she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet, aye, she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd:
And, aye, beside her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-
moon!

NEHEMIAHI HIGGINBOTTOM.

SONNET.

BY MR. ANSTEY.

TO MY OLD WIG.

Aliquisque malo fuit usus in illo.

Written in the Year 1795.

Ан, me! full sorely doth it rend my heart,
O PESSIMUS *, my vet'ran Friend, to view
Thy time-worn front and curls of yellow hue,

And think how soon, unpowder'd, we must part! And much it grieves me, that thy brothers twain, MALUS and PEJOR (both the offspring fair

Of ORCHARD's + plastic hand,) thy fate must share,

Nor, graceful, wave their mealy locks again!

Yet doth my soul a secret solace find

(Such solace as the wise and patient know, Who taste the blessings which from evils flow,) That thou, to PRIAPEAN head consign'd,

Shalt scare voracious crows-and, all unflour'd, Protect the grain thy hungry caul devour'd.

PESSIMUS, the oldest of the Author's three perriwigs, to which he hath for some time assigned the names of MALUS, PEJOR, and PESSIMUS.

Mr. WALTER ORCHARD, peruke-maker, in Bath, and patentee of the celebrated elastic wigs.

ODE

TO THE GERMAN DRAMA.

DAUGHTER of Night, chaotic Queen!
Thou fruitful source of modern plays;
Whose subtle plot, and tedious scene
The monarch spurn, the robber raise—
Bound in thy necromantic spell,

The audience taste the joys of hell;

And Britain's sons indignant groan

With pangs unfelt before at crimes before unknown.

When first, to make the nations stare,
Folly her painted mask display'd,
Schiller sublimely mad was there,
And Kotz'bue lent his mighty aid-
Gigantic pair! their lofty soul,
Disdaining Reason's weak controul,
On changeful Britain sped the blow,

Who, thoughtless of her own, embrac'd fictitious woe.

Aw'd by thy scowl tremendous, fly

Fair Comedy's theatric brood;

Light satire, wit, and harmless joy,

And leave us dungeons, chains, and blood;

Swift they disperse, and with them go

Mild Otway, sentimental Rowe,

Congreve averts th' indignant eye,

And Shakspeare mourns to view th' exotic prodigy.

Ruffians in regal mantle dight,

Maidens immers'd in thought profound, Spectres that haunt the shades of night, And spread a waste of ruin round: These form thy never-varying theme, While buried in thy Stygian stream, Religion mourns her wasted fires,

And Hymen's sacred torch low hisses and expires.

O mildly o'er the British stage,

Great Anarch, spread thy sable wings;

Not fired with all the frantic rage

With which thou hurl'st thy darts at kings,
(As thou in native garb art seen)
With scatter'd tresses, haggard mien,
Sepulchral chains, and hideous cry,

By Despot arts immur'd in ghastly poverty.

In specious form, dread Queen, appear,
Let Falsehood fill the dreary waste,
Thy democratic rant be here,

To fire the brain, corrupt the taste.
The fair, by vicious love misled,
Teach me to cherish, and to wed,
To low-born Arrogance to bend,

Establish'd order spurn, and call each outcast friend.

TWO HEADS BETTER THAN ONE.

A TALE.

As Yorkshire Humphrey t'other day
O'er London Bridge was stumping,
He saw with wonder and delight
The Water-Works a pumping.

Numps gazing stood, and, wond'ring how
This grand machine was made,
To feast his eyes, he thrust his head
Betwixt the ballustrade.

A sharper, prowling near the spot,
Observes the gaping lout;

And soon with fish-hook finger turns
His pocket inside out.

Numps feels the twitch, and turns around

The thief, with artful leer,

Says, "Sir, you'll presently be robb'd,

For pick-pockets are near."

Quoth Numps, "I don't fear London thieves,

"I'se not a simple youth;

"My guinea, Measter's, safe enow:

"I've put'n in ma mouth!"