THE SCAVENGERS.

A TOWN ECLOGUE.

Dulcis odor lucri ex re quâlibet.

AWAKE, my Muse, prepare a loftier theme.
The winding valley and the dimpled stream
Delight not all: quit, quit the verdant field,
And try what dusty streets and alleys yield.

Where Avon wider flows, and gathers fame,
Stands a fair town, and Warwick is its name.
For useful arts entitled once to share
The gentle Ethelfleda's guardian care,
Nor less for deeds of chivalry renown'd,
When her own Guy was with her laurels crown'd.
Now Syren sloth holds here her tranquil reign,
And binds in silken bonds the feeble train.
Now frowning knights in uncouth armour lac'd,
Seek now for monsters on the dreary waste:
In these soft scenes they chase a gentler prey,
No monsters! but as dangerous as they.
In diff'rent forms as sure destruction lies,
They have no claws 't is true-but they have eyes.
Last of the toiling race there liv'd a pair,
Bred up in labour, and inur'd to care!
To sweep the streets their task from Sun to Sun,
And seek the nastiness which others shun.
More plodding wight or dame you ne'er shall see,
He Gaffer Pestel hight, and Gammer she.

As at their door'they sat one summer's day,
Old Pestel first essay'd the plaintive lay:
His gentle mate the plaintive lay return'd,
And thus alternately their cares they mourn'd.

OLD PESTEL.

Alas! was ever such fine weather seen,
How dusty are the roads, the streets how clean!
How long, ye almanacs! will it be dry?
Empty my cart how long, and idle I!
Ev'n at the best the times are not so good,
But 't is hard work to scrape a livelihood.
The cattle in the stalls resign their life,
And baulk the shambles, and th' unbloody knife.
While farmers sit at home in pensive gloom,
And turnpikes threaten to complete my doom.

WIFE.

Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt,
Some say the managers are friends to dirt.
But much I fear this murrain where 't will end,
For sure the cattle did our door befriend.
Oft have I hail'd them, as they stalk'd along,
Their fat the butchers pleas'd, but me their dung.

OLD PESTEL.

See what a little dab of dirt is here!

But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where?
Yet, on this spot, though now so naked seen,
Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been.
Bigger, and bigger, the proud dunghill grew,
Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.

WIFE.

Ah! Gaffer Pestel, what brave days were those, When higher than our house our muckhill rose! The growing mount I view'd with joyful eyes, And mark'd what each load added to its size.

Wrapt in its fragrant steam we often sat,
And to its praises held delightful chat.
Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,
To swell the goodly heap from day to day.
A cabbage once I bought; but small the cost-
Nor do I think the farthing all was lost.
Again you sold its well-digested store,
To dung the garden where it grew before.

OLD PESTEL.

What though the beaux and powder'd coxcombs jeer'd,

And at the scavenger's employment sneer'd,
Yet then at night content I told my gains,
And thought well paid their malice, and my pains.
Why toils the tradesman, but to swell his store?
Why craves the wealthy landlord still for more?
Why will our gentry flatter, fawn, and lie?
Why pack the cards, and what d' ye call 't-the
die?

All, all the pleasing paths of gain pursue,
And wade through thick and thin as we folks do.
Sweet is the scent that from advantage springs,
And nothing dirty which good interest brings.

WIFE.

When goody Dobbins call'd me nasty bear,
And talk'd of kennels and the ducking-chair,
With patience I could hear the scolding quean,
For sure 't was dirtiness that kept me clean.
Clean was my gown on Sundays, if not fine,
Nor Mrs.
-'s cap so white as mine.
A slut in silk, or kersey is the same,
Nor sweetest always is the finest dame.

Thus wail'd they pleasure past, and present cares, While the starv'd hog join'd his complaint with theirs.

To still his grunting diff'rent ways they tend,
To West Street he, and she to Cotton End '.

ABSENCE.

WITH leaden foot Time creeps along
While Delia is away,
With her, nor plaintive was the song,
Nor tedious was the day.

Ah! envious pow'r! reverse my doom,
Now double thy career,
Strain ev'ry nerve, stretch ev'ry plume,
And rest them when she 's here.

TO A LADY,

Yet, for all this parade,

You are but a dull blade,

And your lines are all scragged and raw;

And though you 've hack'd, and have hew'd, And have squeez'd, and have stew'd, Your forc'd-meat is n't all worth a straw.

Though your satire you spit,
T is n't season'd a bit,

And your puffs are as heavy as lead;
Call each dish what you will,

Boil, roast, hash, or grill, Yet still it is all a calf's-head.

I don't mind your huffing, For you 've put such vile stuff in, I protest I'm as sick as a dog;

Were you leaner or fatter, I'd not mince the matter, You 're not fit to dress Æsop a frog.

Then, good master Slice! Shut up shop, if your wise, And th' unwary no longer trepan; Such advice indeed is hard, And may stick in your gizzard, But digest it as well as you can.

THE MISTAKE.

ON CAPTAIN BLUFF. 1750.

SAYS a gosling, almost frighten'd out of her wits,
Help, mother, or else I shall go into fits.

I have had such a fright, I shall never recover,
O! that hawke, that you 've told us of over and

over.

See, there, where he sits, with his terrible face, And his coat how it glitters all over with lace. With his sharp hooked nose, and his sword at his heel,

How my heart it goes pit-a-pat, pray, mother, feel." Says the goose, very gravely, "Pray do n't talk so wild,

Those looks are as harmless as mine are, my child.
And as for his sword there, so bright and so nice,
I'll be sworn 't will hurt nothing besides frogs and
mice.

Nay, prithee do n't hang so about me, let loose,
I tell thee he dares not say-bo to a goose.
In short there is not a more innocent fowl,
Why, instead of a hawke, look ye child, 't is an
owl."

ΤΟ

A LADY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT.

ONCE of forbidden fruit the mortal taste
Chang'd beauteous Eden to a dreary waste.
Here you may freely eat, secure the while
From latent poison, or insidious guile.
Yet O! could I but happily infuse
Some secret charm into the sav'ry juice,

Of pow'r to tempt your gentle breast to share
With me the peaceful cot, and rural fare:
A diffrent fate should crown the blest device,
And change my desert to a paradise.

PEYTOE'S GHOST'.

To Craven's health, and social joy,
The festive night was kept,
While mirth and patriot spirit flow'd,
And Dullness only slept.

When from the jovial crowd I stole, And homeward shap'd my way; And pass'd along by Chesterton, All at the close of day.

Thy sky with clouds was overcast, An hollow tempest blow'd,

And rains and foaming cataracts Had delug'd all the road;

When through the dark and lonesome shade
Shone forth a sudden light;

And soon distinct au human form
Engag'd my wondering sight.

Onward it mov'd with graceful port, And soon o'ertook my speed; Then thrice I lifted up my hands,

And thrice I check'd my steed.

"Who art thou, passenger," it cry'd, "From yonder mirth retir'd? That here pursu'st thy cheerless way, Benighted, and be-mir'd."

"I am," said I, "a country clerk, A clerk of low degree,

And yonder gay and gallant scene Suits not a curacy.

"But I have seen such sights to day, As make my heart full glad, Although it is but dark, 't is true, And eke-my road is bad.

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"For I have seen lords, knights, and 'squires, Of great and high renown,

To choose a knight for this fair shire,
All met at Warwick town.

"A wight of skill to ken our laws,
Of courage to defend,
Of worth to serve the public cause
Before a private end.

1 Was lord Willoughby de Broke.-This is a mistake, as that nobleman had neither the name nor the estate of Mr. Peytoe. The late lord, indeed, his godson and heir, had both. This poem refers to Mr. Peytoe, who lived at Chesterton, where the scene lies, and formerly represented the county. C.

And such they found, if right I guess

Of gentle blood he came;

Of morals firm, of manners mild,

And Craven is his name.

"Did half the British tribunes share
Experienc'd Mordaunt's 3 truth,
Another half, like Craven boast
A free unbiass'd youth;

"The Sun I trow, in all his race,
No happier realms should find;
Nor Britons hope for aught in vain,
From warmth with prudence join'd.

"Go on, my country, favour'd soil, Such patriots to produce!" "Go on, my countrymen," he cry'd, "Such patriots still to choose."

This said, the placid form retir'd

Behind the veil of night;

Yet bade me, for my country's good, The solemn tale recite.

TO A LADY,

FURNISHING HER LIBRARY, AT ****, IN WAR-
WICKSHIRE.

WHEN just proportion in each part,
And colours mix d with nicest art,
Conspire to show the grace and mien
Of Chloe, or the Cyprian queen:
With elegance throughout refin'd,
That speaks the passions of the mind,
The glowing canvass will proclaim
A Raphael's or a Titian's name.

So where through ev'ry learned page
Each distant clime, each distant age
Display a rich variety

Of wisdom in epitome;
Such elegance and taste will tell
The hand, that could select so well.
But when we all their beauties view,
United and improv'd by you,

We needs must own an emblem faint,
T' express those charms no art can paint.
Books must, with such correctness writ,
Refine another's taste and wit;

'T is to your merit only due,
That theirs can be refin'd by you.

But since you carelessly refuse,

And to my pen the task assign; O! let your genius guide my Muse, And every vulgar thought refine.

Teach me your best, your best lov'd art,
With frugal care to store my mind;
In this to play the miser's part,
And give mean lucre to the wind:

To shun the coxcomb's empty noise, To scorn the villain's artful mask; Nor trust gay pleasure's fleeting joys, Nor urge ambition's endless task.

Teach me to stem youth's boisterous tide,
To regulate its giddy rage;
By reason's aid my bark to guide,
Into the friendly port of age:

To share what classic culture yields,

Through rhetoric's painted meads to roam; With you to reap historic fields,

And bring the golden harvest home.

To taste the genuine sweets of wit;
To quaff in humour's sprightly bowl;
The philosophic mean to hit,

And prize the dignity of soul.

Teach me to read fair Nature's book, Wide opening in each flow'ry plain; And with judicious eye to look

On all the glories of her reign.

To hail her, seated on her throne,

By awful woods encompass'd round, Or her divine extraction own,

Though with a wreath of rushes crown'd.

Through arched walks, o'er spreading lawns,
Near solemn rocks, with her to rove;
Or court her, mid her gentle fawns,
In mossy cell, or maple grove.

Whether the prospect strain the sight,
Or in the nearer landscapes charm,
Where hills, vales, fountains, woods unite,
To grace your sweet Arcadian farm:

There let me sit, and gaze with you,
On Nature's works by art refin'd;
And own, while we their contest view,
Both fair, but fairest, thus combin'd!

Times too there be, when friendly sleep's

Soft charms the senses bind,

Yet fancy then her vigils keeps,

And ranges unconfin'd.

And reason holds her sep'rate sway,
Though all the senses wake,

And forms in mem'ry's storehouse play,
Of no material make.

What are these then, this eye, this ear,
But nicer organs found,

A glass to read, a trump to hear,
The modes of shape, or sound?

And blows may maim, or time impair
These instruments of clay,
And Death may ravish what they spare,
Completing their decay.

But are these then that living pow'r
That thinks, compares, and rules?
Then say a scaffold is a tow'r,

A workman is his tools.

For aught appears that Death can do,
That still survives his stroke,
Its workings plac'd beyond our view,
Its present commerce broke.

But what connections it may find,

Boots much to hope and fear, And if instruction courts the mind, 'T is madness not to hear.

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ON RECEIVING A LITTLE IVORY BOX FROM A LADY,

CURIOUSLY WROUGHT BY HER OWN HANDS.

LITTLE box of matchless grace!

Fairer than the fairest face,

Smooth as was her parent-hand,

That did thy wondrous form command,
Spotless as her infant mind,

As her riper age refin'd,
Beauty with the graces join'd.

Let me clothe the lovely stranger,
Let me lodge thee safe from danger.
Let me guard thy soft repose,
From giddy fortune's random blows.
From thoughtless mirth, barbaric hate,
From the iron hand of Fate,
And oppression's deadly weight.

Thou art not of a sort, or number,
Fashion'd for a poet's lumber;
Though more capacious than his purse,
Too small to hold his store of verse.
Too delicate for homely toil,

Too neat for vulgar hands to soil.

O! would the Fates permit the Muse
Thy future destiny to choose!
In thy circle's fairy round,
With a golden fillet bound:
Like the snow-drop silver white,
Like the glow-worm's humid light,

' Vide Butler's Analogy.