Youth's gaudy summer-solstice o'er,
Experience yields a mellow-store,
An autumn of reflection!

Why did I let the god of song
Lure me from law, to join his throng, -
Gull'd by some slight applauses?
What's verse to A when versus B?
Or what John Bull, a comedy,

To pleading John Bull's causes?
But, though my childhood felt disease,
Though my lank purse, unswoll'n by fees,
Some ragged muse has netted, -
Still honest Chronos! 'tis most true,
To thee, (and. faith, to others, too)
I'm very much indebted :
For thou hast made me gaily tough,
Inured me to each day that's rough,

In hopes of calm to-morrow; -
And when, old Mower of us all,
Beneath thy sweeping scythe I fall.
Some FEW dear friend will sorrow.

Then, though my idle prose, or rhyme,
Should half an hour outlive me, Time,
Pray bid the stone engravers,

Where'er my bones find church-yard room,
Simply, to chisel on my tomb,

"Thank Time for all his favours!"

TIME'S ANSWER

........... ...........

TO GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER,

Dear George, thy retrospective glance

Has checked me, in my mad advance,

This old truth to arrive at:

Of all who hunt for fame or gain,
Or plough the meadow or the main,

Not one-" contentus vivat."

Time'e Answer.

Think'st thou thy pow'rs, that charm the town,
Had gain'd like honour to the gown?

Ah, no! the field's too narrow.
Else in old Rufus' hall thy lungs,
Self buoyant in the war of tongues,
Had e'en out garrow'd GARROW.
Till wash'd within the bar, quite snug,
Humour is contraband-a drug-

For know, my honest fellow,
Young amorous barristers to bilk,
Wit, ere she sins in robes of silk,
Does penance in prunella.
Leave common law to common men,
Believe me, George, thy nervous pen
A brighter cause espouses.
Yok'd to the rumbling dray of law,
Let others empty pleadings draw,

'Tis thine to draw-full houses.

How many votries of the Muse
My sand as blotting-paper use;
With politics some fill me.
While at a sing-song house, I'm told,
Where foreign notes are chang'd for gold,
Some beat, and others kill me.
Thou know'st my little winning ways,
1 live by eating modern plays,
(A milk and water diet;)
But thou would'st starve me, selfish man!
Gognaw thy pen-I never can-

'Twould break my teeth to try it. When wilt thou write like other men? Observe your brethren of the pen,

How scornfully I treat 'em,
Like oysters, (sorro ful to tell,)
Their plays no sooner quit the shell,
Than, presto, pass, -I eat 'em.

..................N

Occasional Address.

Whilst others in oblivion waste
Time, the Ithuriel spear of taste,

Shall still thy dramas treasure;
They're one and all so truly good,
That though they never give me food,

They always give me pleasure.
Thus sailing down life's eddying pool,
My wings shall fan thy passions cool, -
Psha! cease this idle pother!
My eyes draw dim-give me thy hand,
One-half my glass is choak'd with sand,
Let's fill with wine the other!
Long may'st thou flourish, wisely gay,
Till my own forelock turns to grey:
And when old Pluto's raven
Shall croak thee to thy narrow room,
The passenger, upon thy tomb,

Shall read these lines engraven: "Within this monumental bed, Apollo's favourite rests his head;

Ye mourners cease your grieving;
A son the father's loss supplies;
Be comforted, thoush Colman dies,
His Heir at Law' is living!"

A NEW OCCASIONAL ADDRESS.

When the bleak winds in winter's hoary reign,
Bind up the waters in his icy chain;

When round the pool the village youngsters meet,
And try the frozen edge with tim'rous feet,
The surface trembles, and the crackling noise
Cows with wide-spreading fear faint hearted boys;
Whilst one more vent'rous than the rest appears,
Glides to the centre, and assur'd it bears,
Rais'd on his skaites, the polish'd mirror skims,
Nor dreads immersion deen, bruis d bones, or broken limbs.
Just such a vent'rer trembling near the shore,
Vas I, when first I try'd this surface o'er

The Newcastle Apothecary.

With doubtful step, new to the slippery stage,
I anxious wish'd, yet dreaded, to engage;
Hope smiled auspicious, and assurance gave
I should not meet a cold, o'erwhelming grave;
Then from the shore my puny bark I push'd,
Whilst your applause my loudest terrors hush'd;
And to your candour trusting, still I glide
Safely my bark 'long the unruffled tide;
Your kind protection is the prosp'rous gale
That speeds its voyage, and extends its sail:
And whilst such fav'ring breezes happy blow,
With all the aid indulgence can bestow,
Be this her wish'd-for course-her grateful name,
The Endeavour brig, bound for the port of Fame.

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

A man, in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with Death to wrestie,
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks
With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So (many a suff'ring patient, faith,)
Through the apothecary, fights with Death;
Still, they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Esculapian line,

Liv'd at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;

Or give a clyster;

Of occupations these were quantum suff;
Yet still he thought the list not long enough,

D3

The Newcastle Apothecary.

And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't,
This balanc'd things:-for if he hurl'd
A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into't.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus :
All the old women call'd him "a fine man!"
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter) Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste to cure a phthisic?
Of poetry though patron, god
Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus lov'd verse, and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.
No opportunity he e'er let pass,

Of writing the directions on his labels
In dapper couplets-like Gay's Fables;

Or rather, like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason?
'Tis simply honest dealing, not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at Death's door,
Some three miles from the town, it might be four,
To whom one evening Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy, that's call'd carthartical,

And, on the label of the stuff

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough,

And terse:

"WHEN TAKEN,

"TO BE WELL SHAKEN."

Next morning, early, Bolus rose,

And to the patient's house he goes

Upon this pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had;

.....