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Or desp'rate lady near a purling stream,
Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.
Mean while I labour with eternal drought,
And, restless, wish, and rave, my parched throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose :
But if a slumber haply does invade
My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake,
Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,
Tipples imaginary pots of ale,
In vain > awake I find the settled thirst
Still gnawing, and the pleasant fantom curse.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd.
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays
Mature, John-Apple, nor the downy Peach,
Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure ;
Nor Medlar fruit, delicious in decay :
AMictions great! yet greater still remain :
My Galligaskins, that have long withstood
The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts,
By Time fubdu'd (what will not Time subdue !)
An horrid chasm disclos'd with orifice
Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds
Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force
Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronean waves,
'Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts,
Portending agues. Thus, a well fraught ship
Long fail'd secure, or thro' th' Ægean deep,
Or th' Ionean, till cruising near
The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush,
On Scylla, or Charybdis (dang’rous rocks!)


She strikes rebounding, whence the shatter'd oak,
So fierce a shock unable to withstand,
Admits the sea ; in at the gaping fide
The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage,
Refiftless, overwhelming; horrors seize
The mariners, death in their eyes appear,
They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray:
(Vain efforts!) Still the batt'ring wayes rush in,
Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam,
The ship finks found'ring in the vast abyfse

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Mr. Hawkins Browne, the author of these, as I am

told, had no good original manner of his own, yet we see how well he succeeds when he turns an imitator; for the following are rather imitations, than ridiculous parodies.


A NE W - Y E A R's O D E.


LD battle-array, big with horror, is filed,
And olive rob’d Peace again lifts up

her head. Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace; Was ever a nation so blessed as this?

A I R.

When summer suns grow red with heat,

Tobacco tempers Phoebus' ire ; When wintry storms around us beat,

Tobacco chear's with gentle fire.


Yellow Autumn, youthful Spring,
In thy praises jointly fing.


Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,

Fraught with Tobacco's balmy sweets; Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's pow'r,

And Boreas is afraid to roar.

A I R.
Happy mortal, he! who knows
Pleasure which a Pipe bestows;
Curling eddies climb the room,
Wafting round a mild perfume,

RECITATIVE, Let foreign climes the vine and orange boait, While wastes of war deform the teeming coaft ; Britannia, distant from each hoftile krund, Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown'd: E’en restless Faction finds itself most free; Or, if a flave, a slave to Liberty.

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A I R.

Smiling years, that gayly run
Round the zodiac, with the sun,
Tell, if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.
British fons no longer, now,
Hurl the bar, or twang the bow;


Nor of crimson combat think,
But securely smoke and drink.

CHORU S. Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms fo quiet and serene,


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