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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

BAD COMPANY; or, The MAGPYE.

ANONYMOUS.

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In raptures praise the tuneful choir;

The Linnet, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Thrush, ·
And ev'ry warbler of the bush;

I fing the mimic Magpye's fame,
In wicker cage well fed and tame.

In Fleet-ftreet dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradefman, nam'd Tom Moore;
Gen'rous and open as the day,
But paffionately fond of play;
No founds to him fuch fweets afford
As dice-box, rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazard is the game

For which he forfeits health and fame.

In basket-prifon hung on high,
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A fav'rite Magpye fees the play,
And mimics ev'ry word they fay;

Lord! how he nicks us! Tom Moore cries,
Lord! how he nicks us! Mag replies;
Tom throws, and eyes the glitt'ring ftore,
And, as he throws, exclaims, Tom Moore!
Tom Moore! the mimic bird replies;
Th' aftonish'd gamefters lift their eyes,
And, wond'ring, ftare and look around,
As doubtful whence proceeds the found.

This diffipated life, of course, annou Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse; Nor pray'rs nor promises prevail To keep him from a dreary jail.

eye;

And now, between each heart-felt figh, Tom oft exclaims, Bad Company!! Poor Mag, who fhares his mafter's fate, Exclaims, from out his wicker grate, Bad Company! Bad Company! Then views poor Tom with curious And cheers his master's wretched hours, By this difplay of mimic pow'rs. Th' imprifon'd bird, though much carefs'd, Is ftill by anxious care opprefs'd; In filence mourns his cruel fate, And oft explores his prifon-gate.

Obferve, through life you'll always find A fellow feeling makes us kind. So Tom refolves immediately To give poor Mag his liberty; Then opes his and with a figh Takes one fond look, and lets him fly.

cage,

Now Mag, once more with freedom blefs'd,
Looks round to find a place of reft;
To Temple Gardens wings his way,
There perches on a neighb'ring fpray.

The Gardner now, with busy cares,
A curious feed for grafs prepares;
Yet, fpite of all his toil and pain,
The hungry birds devour the grain.

A curious net he does prepare,
And lightly fpreads the wily fnare;
The feather'd plunderers come in vice,
And Mag foon joins the thievith crew.
The watchful Gardner now ftands by.
With nimble hand and wary eye;
The birds begin their foln repal,
The flying net fecures them falt

The vengeful cl Does to a neighb'r And, having firft And windows, ne

Now, in reveng Each felon he refo Then twifts their li And cafts them bre

Mag, who with
Knew fomething
He therefore watc
And flipt himself
Then, perch'd on
Obferves how de
Lord! how he n
Thaltonifh'd C
With fal tring
Exclaims "
His murd'rou
And cafts his
With caution
The Magpy
The wond'
Believes h
With fear

Towards
Then fa
The re
"O
Wis
Ha

The vengeful clown, now fill'd with ire,
Does to a neighb'ring fhed retire,
And, having firft fecur'd the doors
And windows, next the net explores.

Now, in revenge for plunder'd feed,
Each felon he refolves fhall bleed;
Then twists their little necks around,
And cafts them breathlefs on the ground.

Mag, who with man was us'd to herd,
Knew fomething more than common bird;
He therefore watch'd with anxious care,
And flipt himself from out the fnare,
Then, perch'd on nail remote from ground,
Obferves how deaths are dealt around.
Lord! how he nicks us! Maggy cries;
Th' aftonifh'd Gard'ner lift his eyes,
With fal'tring voice, and panting breath,
Exclaims "Who's there?"-All ftill as death.
His murd'rous work he does refume,

And cafts his eye around the room
With caution, and, at length, doth fpy
The Magpye perch'd on nail fo high!
The wond'ring clown, from what he heard,
Believes him fomething more than bird;
With fear imprefs'd, does now retreat
Towards the door, with trembling feet,
Then fays Thy name I do implore ?"
The ready bird replies-Tom Moore.
"O Lord!" the frighten'd clown replies,
With hair erect and staring eyes:

Half-op'ning then the hovel door,

He afks the bird one queftion more:

"What brought you here?" with quick reply, Sly Mag rejoins-Bad Company.

Out jumps the Gardner in a fright,
And runs away with all his might;
And as he runs, imprefs'd with dread,
Exclaims, "The Devil's in the fhed!"

The wond'rous tale a Bencher hears,
And fooths the man, and quells his fears;

Gets Mag fecur'd in wicker cage,
Once more to spend his little rage
In Temple-Hall now hung on high,
Mag oft exclaims Bad Company

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RIEND of my youthful days, for ever paft,

Ah! art thou ftretch'd amid the ftraw at laft P
These eyes, with tears, thy dying looks devour.
Blefs'd would I foften thy hard bed of death,

And with new floods the fount of life fupply:
Yes, Peter, blefs'd would I prolong thy breath,
Renew each nerve, and cheer thy beamless eye.

But wherefore with? Thy lot is that of all:

Thy friend, who mourns, muft yield to Nature's law; Like thee muft fink; and o'er each dark'ning ball Will Death's cold hand th' eternal curtain draw.

Piteous thou lifteft up thy feeble head,

And mark'ft me dimly, with a dumb adieu; And thus amid thy hopeless looks I read,

"Faint is thy fervant, and his moments few.

"With thee no more the hills and vales I tread;
"Thofe times, fo happy, are for ever o'er:
"Ah! why fhould Fate, fo cruel, cut our thread,
"And part a friendship that must meet no more?

"O! when these languid lids are shut by Fate,

"O! let in peace thefe aged limbs be laid ""Mid that lov'd field which faw us oft of late, "Beneath our fav'rite willow's ample fhade! "And if my Mafter chance to wander nigh, "Befide the spot where Peter's bones repofe, "Let your poor fervant claim one little figh; "Grant this-and bless'd these for ever close."

Yes, thou poor Spirit! yes,thy with is mine...
Yes, be thy grave beneath the willow's gloom-
There fhall the fod, the greeneft fod, be thine;
And there the brightest flow'r of spring fhall bloom.
footstep draws,
Thy turf fhall furely catch thy Mafter's eye;
There on thy fleep of death fhall Friendship paufe,
Dwell on paft days, and leave thee with a figh.

Oft to the field as Health

my

Sweet is remembrance of our youthful hours,
When Innocence upon our actions fmil'd!
What though Ambition fcorn'd our humble pow'rs,
Thou a wild cub, and I a cub as wild:

Pleas'd will I tell how oft we us'd to roam ;
How oft we wander'd at the peep of morn,
Till Night had wrapp'd the world in spectred gloom,
And Silence liften'd to the beetle's horn.

Thy victories will I recount with joy,

The various trophies by thy fleetness won;
And boast that I, thy playfellow, a boy,'
Beheld the feats by namefake Peter done.

Yes, yes, (for grief muft yield at times to glee,)
Amidft my friends I oft will give our tale;
When, lo! thofe friends will rush thy fod to fee,
And call thy peaceful region-PETER'S VALE.

B

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

PERCIVAL.

With Additions by GUION.

EREAV'D of friends, inheritance, and rest, An aged mortal, plaintive, begg'd his way; And fpurn'd by grandeur, when he made request, Thus, at the door of worth, was heard to fay:

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Pity the forrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your

door;

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