THE man who not a farthing owes,

Looks down with scornful eye on those

Who rise by fraud and cunning;

Though in the Pig-Market he stand,

With aspect grave, and clear-starch'd band,

He fears no tradesman's dunning.

II.

He passes by each shop in town, Nor hides his face beneath his gown,

No dread his heart invading;

He quaffs the nectar of the Tuns,
Or on a spur-gall'd hackney runs
To London masquerading.

III.

What joy attends a new-paid debt!
Our manciple I lately met,

Of visage wise and prudent;

I on the nail my battels paid,
The monster turn'd away dismay'd,

Hear this, each Oxford student!

IV.

With justice and with truth to trace The grisly features of his face,

Exceeds all man's recounting; Suffice, he look'd as grim and sour

As any lion in the Tower,

Or half-starv'd cat-a-mountain.

V.

A phiz so grim you scarce can meet In Bedlam, Newgate, or the Fleet,

Dry nurse of faces horrid!

Not BUCKHORSE fierce, with many a bruise, Displays such complicated hues

On his undaunted forehead.

VI.

Place me on Scotland's bleakest hill,
Provided I can pay my bill,

Hang ev'ry thought of sorrow;
There falling sleet, or frost, or rain,
Attack a soul resolv'd, in vain :-

It may be fair to-morrow.

VII.

To Headington then let me stray,
And take Joe Pullen's Tree away,

I'll ne'er complain of Phœbus;
But while he scorches up the
I'll fill a bumper to my lass,

grass,

And toast her in a rebus.

IMPERIAL bird, who wont to soar

High o'er the rolling cloud,

Where Hyperborean mountains hoar

Their heads in ether shroud ;

Thou servant of almighty Jove,

Who, free and swift as thought, could'st rove

To the bleak north's extremest goal;

Thou, who magnanimous could'st bear
The sov'reign thunderer's arms in air,

And shake thy native pole!

II.

O cruel fate! what barb'rous hand,
What more than Gothic ire,

At some fierce tyrant's dread command,
To check thy daring fire,

Has plac'd thee in this servile cell,

Where discipline and dulness dwell;

Where genius ne'er was seen to roam : Where ev'ry selfish soul's at rest,

Nor ever quits the carnal breast,

But lurks and sneaks at home!

III.

Though dimm'd thine eye, and clipt thy wing,

So grov'ling! once so great!

The grief-inspir'd Muse shall sing

In tend'rest lays thy fate :

What time by thee scholastic pride,
Takes his precise, pedantic stride,

Nor on thy mis'ry casts a care;
The stream of love ne'er from his heart
Flows out, to act fair pity's part;

But stinks, and stagnates there.