Before they had them Chains, they say,
A number of them run away.

There's such an Oceant still, I wonder'd,
How they could miss a thousand hundred.
But that indeed again is something,
They can know all things by the round thing.

As I went on, the Folk* that reads,
Would many times pop up their heads.
And douck 'um down (may hap) again,
And these are call'd the Learned Men.
And look for all the world as frighted,
But were I to be hang'd, or knighted,
I can't imagine what mought ail'd 'um,
For could they think one wou'd a steal ’um ;
Well, by and by, there's one comes to me,
I thought the Fellow might have knew me,
Hoa said, I must not make a stomping,
And that it was no place to jump in ;
Whop, Sir, thought I, and what ado's here,
About the nails that in one's shoes are;
Hoa told me that the Men were earning,
A world of something by their Learning,
And that a noise might put them out,
So that they ne'er could bring't about.

* Students disturbed.

Well, cause hoa made a din about 'um,

I daff'd my Shoes, and went without 'um.
The Fellow gern'd,* and cry'd what's that for?
I said, and what would you be at, Sir?
My shoes I take under my arm,
Rather than do their Worships harm,
Because I would not leave the room,
Before the Minister be come.

At that, hoa laugh'd; so for my part,

I thought the Fool would break his Heart,
I was so mad to see 'n flout ma,

I long'd almost to lay about ma;

But thinking that might there be Evil,
I thought 't were better to be civil:
Tying my Shoes upon my Feet,

I went down Stairs into the Street.

* Or smiled.

MARY PIX

Was the daughter of a clergyman named Griffith.

66

By

the date of her writings, she flourished in King William III.'s reign; but in what year she was born, to whom married, or when she died, are particulars which seem buried in obscurity and oblivion.”— Biog. Dram. She wrote eleven plays.

SONG

(In the third Act of Ibrahim, the thirteenth Emperor of the Turks. Printed 1696).

IMPERIAL Sultan, hail,

To whom great kingdoms bow,
Whose vast dominion shall prevail

O'er all below!

Commanding woman here

An humble vassal shall appear;

No thunder in her voice we prize,

Or lightning in her eyes,

When our terrestrial God draws near.

Under our prophet's influence live,

While wondering nations view

The deeds your conquering armies do,

And Christians to be made your subjects strive!

ANONYMOUS AUTHORESS.

The Golden Island, or the Darian Song, in commendation of all concerned in that noble enterprise of the valiant Scots. By a Lady of Honour,—was printed at Edinburgh in 1699. It consists of an hundred and fiftytwo lines, of which the following small portion will, no doubt, amply satisfy the reader.

REFRESHING spring and rivulets,
When we were landed there,
Came gliding with her jumbling notes,
Invites us to take share;

The charming birds, that haunts the woods,
Meavis, peacock, and dow,

Brought presents in their mouths, and sang

We pay tribute to you.

We went in boats, and come to land,

Which banish'd all our fears:

The seas did mourn for want of us,

Each oar was dropping tears.
The wolf, the lion, and the boar,
The wild tiger, and fox,

Did fill their claws with golden dust,
Salutes us from the rocks.

The turtles in the Indian seas

Left eggs upon the land,

And came to see that noble fleet,
Was come from old Scotland.

The hurtchon came out of the woods,
Her prickles load with fruit,

She mumbled, but she could not speak, Ye're welcome all come eat.

The balmy grass, and blooming flowers, Were all cover'd with dew;

Then Phoebus bid them give a smell,

And that would pay their due.