TO THE "FOE TO TYRANTS," ON His FAREWELL

Since ink, thank heaven, is all the blood you spill, Health to the driver of the true goose quill; Such war shall leave no widow in despair, Nor curse one orphan with the public care. 'TIS the worst wound the heart of man can feel, Thus to be wounded by an ass's heel: With generous satire give me all my due, Nay, give me more, and call me scoundrel too, Make me as black as hell's remotest gloom, But still to genius let me owe my doom: By Jove's red light'nings 'tis no shame to bleed, But by a grovelling swine—is death indeed. NOW, by the laurels of your yellow crew, I felt no shame 'till I engag'd with you; But such an odour scented from your song, I stopt my nose, and quickly pass'd along, Blush'd for the wretch that could such filth display, His guts disgorging in the public way. ARM'D as I stand, unusual tumults rise, And all my soul comes swelling through my eyes, To think that in the skirmish of a day This bard must perish, and his fame decay, So quick retire to black oblivion's clime, Turn'd, chas'd, and routed by the power of rhime! I WISH'D him still unhandled and unhurt, I wish'd no evils to this man of dirt; I thought to leave him swelt'ring in his den, Not with such rotten trash to stain my pen, But his base labours wrought his utter woe, And his own efforts now shall lay him low:— Before his eyes the sexton's spade appears, And bells unceasing ring within his ears, Already is his span of being fled, Sense, wit, and reason—all proclaim him dead; In his own lines he toll'd his funeral knell, And when he could not sing he stunk FAREWELL.