ON

A PARODY

BLEST AS TH' IMMORTAL GODS IS HE."

By the Hon. HENRY ERSKINE.

DRUNK as a dragon sure is he,

The youth that dines or sups with thee;
And sees and hears thee, full of fun,
Loudly laugh, and quaintly pun.

'Twas this first made me love my dose, And rais'd such pimples on my nose; For while I fill'd to every toast,

My health was gone, my senses lost.

I found the claret and champagne,
Inflame my blood, and mad my brain;
The toast fell fault'ring from my tongue,
I hardly heard the catch I sung.

I felt my gorge and sickness rise;

The candles danc'd before my eyes;

My sight grew dim, the room turn'd round,
I tumbled senseless on the ground!

AN ODE

TO EIGHT CATS, BELONGING TO ISRAEL

MENDEZ, A JEW.

SCENE, the Street.

The Time, Midnight--the Poet at his Chamber Window.

SINGERS of Israel! Oh, ye singers sweet! Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear, Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,

And to the sleepless wretch the night endear:

Lo! in my shirt, on you these eyes I fix,

Admiring much the quaintness of your tricks; Your friskings, crawlings, squalls, I much

approve:

Your spittings, pawings, high-rais'd rumps,
Swell'd tails, and Merry-Andrew jumps,
With the wild minstrelsy of rapt'rous love.

How sweetly roll your gooseb'rry eyes,
As loud you tune your am'rous cries,

And, loving, scratch each other black and blue! No boys, in wantonness, now bang your backs; No curs, nor fiercer mastiffs, tear your flax, [you. But all the moon-light world seems made for

Singers of Israel! You no parsons want

To tie the matrimonial cord;

You call the matrimonial service cant

Like our first parents, take each other's word :
On no one ceremony pleas'd to fix—

To jump not even o'er two sticks.

You want no furniture, alas!

Spit, spoon, dish, frying-pan, or ladle;

No iron, pewter, copper, tin, or brass;

Nor nurses, wet or dry, nor cradle,

Which custom, for our Christian babes, enjoins, To rock the staring offspring of your loins.

Nor of the lawyers you have need,

Ye males, before you seek your bed,

To settle pin-money on Madam:

No fears of cuckoldom,-Heav'n bless ye!Are ever harbour'd to distress ye, Tormenting people since the days of Adam.

No schools you want for fine behaving,

No powdering, painting, washing, shaving, No night-caps snug, no trouble in undressing, Before you seek your strawy nest,

Pleas'd in each other's arms to rest,

To feast on love, Heav'n's greatest blessing.

Good Gods! Ye sweet love-chanting rams!
How nimble are you with your hams

To mount a house, to scale a chimney-top;
And, peeping down the chimney's hole,
Pour, in a tuneful cry, th' empassion'd soul,
Inviting Miss Grimalkin to come up.

Who, sweet obliging female, far from coy,
Answers your invitation note with joy,

And scorning 'midst the ashes more to mope,
Lo! borne on Love's all-daring wing,
She mounteth with a pickle-herring spring,
Without th' assistance of a rope.

Dear mousing tribe, my limbs are waxing coldSingers of Israel sweet, adieu, adieu!

I do suppose you need not now be told,

How much I wish that I was one of you.