least tend to confirm what I have said, that the chase was his favourite amusement. This is the song; as it is the copy of a copy, perhaps the original has lost as much by transcription, as some originals have lost by translation.

Hark! hark! I think I hear the horn,
That chides my long repose;

The dew-drop twinkles on the thorn,
The stream in music flows.

Hark! hear! I hear black Betsy snort,
Impatient of the rein:

When Nature thus proclaims the sport,
Shall man cry out, It's vain?

For this she lent the gentle hart
The vivid lightning's speed;

She taught the hare her mazy art,
And wing'd the generous steed.

Let sages then of human race,
The slaves of musty saws,
Decry the pleasures of the chase,
The fruit of Nature's laws.

The chase supplied our ancient sires
With food and raiment too-d
Till curs'd Ambition fann'd her fires,
And bent the sounding yew..

Then Law stretch'd forth her artful toils,
And Cunning laid her snares;

And Plunder gloried in her spoils,

And fill'd the world with cares.

But

But Care dare not as yet pursue

The hunter's bounding hoof;
And if she even takes a view,

The view must be aloof.

As you seem pleased with this poetical primrose, I'll present you with another, a bud of the same spring.

Verses on a Wooden Leg.

Divines, especially your old ones,
Will gravely tell you, if they're cold ones,

you may father on the Devil

That you may

Each act and deed of moral evil;
His back is broad enough, we know,
To bear them all, like Richard Roe.
In ev'ry suit Old Nick 's engag'd,
Yet strange to tell, he's never cag'd;
For he's at large, and runs about,
The Devil's in, the Devil's out.
Thus grave divines have made up pills,
To cure us of all human ills:

If you have lost a horse or mare,
Then you're cut off from so much care;
If death deprives you of your wife,
Why, there's an end to all your strife,
Or should she crown your brow with horns,
Bear them with patience like your corns :
They've remedies for each disaster,

For ev'ry broken head a plaister.

!

For instance, now there's 'Ellis Clegg,
You know the man has broke his leg;
No matter how, no matter where,
It's known that Ellis loves the fair.
At first he wept, and call'd on death,
But now he's glad he kept his breath;
What has he gain'd then by the loss?
To use the words of Jerry Cross:
In point of saving, let us see,
The first great thing's economy:
He saves a stocking and a shoe,
And half a pair of boots will do.
And then, if he should chance to ride,
One spur's sufficient for a side, young,
And if that side should move, you'll find
The other will not lag behind:
It's easy prov'd from Hudibras,
Nay, you may prove it by your ass.
What next? He'll save a yard of garter,
And then the gout will catch a Tartar;
If it should think to seize his oak,
How Clegg will laugh, and tell the joke!
We hav'nt done with savings yet,
In wear and tare, and even trett:
The buckle's sav'd that binds the knee,
Or tape in bow-knots three times three.
The buckle's sav'd that binds the shoe,
And any buckle now will do
Provided it will hold the latchet,
There's no occasion, Sir, to match it;
Odd buckles sell for one third price,
So there's a saving in a trice.

Then

Then soap and washing's sav'd, you see,
Upon the wooden deputy;

Though if you judge by shoe and shirt,
Clegg seems to like a little dirt;
And it will serve him all his life,
To bear him up, or beat his wife.
Another thing, if he should beg,
There's nothing like a wooden leg ;
And when he moves upon his pins,
He's not afraid of broken shins:
Besides, he stands a fourth relation
To ev'ry blockhead in the nation,
And ev'ry place of public trust

Is fill'd with all these blockheads first.
Now, reader, if you please we'll stop,
And moralize upon the prop.
What is a leg of flesh and bone?
If well proportion'd, I must own
It adds new beauties to the fair,
And always marketable ware.
Like ev'ry other charm, they last
Until the honey-moon is past;
With age they shrivel and they shrink,
And then, alas! what must we think?
Sure it should mortify our pride,

To think the best are thrown aside.

But our youthful poet, if I may presume to call him by that name, did not waste all the precious moments of his syntax-days in hunting after butterflies, or collecting the flowers that grew in every hedge; he could be serious on occasions;

occasions; I don't say that he could be serious when he pleased, nor yet gay when he pleased; for I might as well say, that we can sleep when we please, or dream when we please. About thirteen years .of age, he used to write once or twice a week, or oftener, a few lines on any subject that struck him, in the English language, in order to enable him to speak and write, if not with felicity, at least with facility, in that tongue, which was now becoming fashionable, in consequence of the excellent poets that called forth all the vigour and copiousness of it. These exercises were written at the desire of his father, for whom he always entertained the most filial affection. I have lost them all except this one:

Affliction.

"As Affliction one day sat on the sea-shore, she leaned her head on her hand, and seemed to cast her eye at a distance on the swelling ocean; wave succeeded to wave, and tear after tear stole down her pallid cheek; the polished pebbles, intermingled with shells of fading colours, drew her attention, whilst her imagination traced a variety of pictures in the fortuitous assemblage. As Affliction has amusements, as well as other affections of the mind, she traced a figure on the shining sand, with a branch of willow, which she called MAN. Jupiter happened to pass that

way,