Ah let me not, with heavy eye, Ill can I bear the motley caft At home unbleft, I gaze around, Tho' THOMSON, fweet defcriptive bard! Yet how should we the months regard, Ah luckless months, of all the rest, That ever fung fo well. And fee, the fwallows now difown The roofs they lov'd before; To glad fome happier thore. The The wood-nymph eyes, with pale affright, While hounds and horns and yells unite To drown the mufe's reed. Ye fields with blighted herbage brown! Too much we feel from fortune's frown, Where is the mead's unfullied green? And where fweet friendship's cordial mien, What tho' the vine disclose her dyes, And boast her purple store; Not all the vineyard's rich fupplies He! he is gone, whofe moral strain Could wit and mirth refine; He he is gone, whofe focial vein Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise, In yon fequefter'd grove, To him a votive urn I raise; To him, and friendly love. Yes Yes there, my friend! forlorn and fad, I grave your THOMSON'S name; And there, his lyre; which fate forbad To found your growing fame. There fhall my plaintive fong recount There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green, But no kind funs will bid me fhare, JEMMY JEMMY DAWSON, A BALLAD; written about the Time of his C OME liften to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; And thou, dear KITTY, peerless maid, For thou canst weep at every woe; Young DAWSON was a gallant boy, One tender maid, fhe lov'd him dear, And spotlefs was her virgin fame. But But curfe on party's hateful ftrife, Their colours, and their fash he wore, How pale was then his true-love's cheek, With faultering voice, fhe weeping faid, Yet might sweet mercy find a place, The gracious prince that gave him life, And every tender babe I bore Should learn to lifp the giver's name. But |