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. Silent she sat with rapture high, Full on dear Tom was fix'd her eye ; Yet, as he finished, 'tis confess'd, She arch'd her neck, and rear'd her crest,' As proud to own the glorious cause, And clapt her wings, and coo'd applause.

• Go,' cried the Cock, my soul disdains To make reply! go hug your chains !!

He scarce had ended, when, behold, A rival comes, as young, as bold: They fight, and dismal scenes ensue, Their females unconcern'd withdrew;" This dies ! our hero maim'd, survives, The scorn of all his twenty wives... Dejected now he hides his head, None mourn the wounded, nor the dead. New rakes, new loves, new broils succeed, They riot, envy, fight, and bleed....! With speechless.joys the Turtles glow'd, Their joys their meeting glances shew'd ; They bless'd the Gracious Pow'r above, That each of them was form'd a Dove. ;

Let others take from Cocks their cue, And range wide nature's common through; By Doves instructed, you and I, Each with his one can live and die. *

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The Lark, a bird politely bred,
In plumage sleek, with tufted head,
Builds humbly in the field her nest,
Where the young brood in quiet rest;

" que es . But, fit for flight, and harvest near,.. Ere danger comes, they disappear, .

In a rye-field, where oft she sung, A Lark took lodgings for her young," :? But saw, with sorrow and surprise, 'Twas ripe ere they could skim the skies. In this distress, My chicks,' said she, ** • Whene'er abroad for food I fee, · The news ye hear to me relate, · Lest o'er you hang a timeless fate."

Next morn the Farmer and his son About the field their walk begun; • Sure,' quoth the man, 'this grain is grown: • Too ripe, and should ere this be down. "To-morrow, boy, before the dawn, Hither let all our friends be drawn.'

The Lark returns, the tim'rous brood
The tale relate; she understood ;
At length, from care releas'd, she hears
Without alarm their cries and fears :


• Children,' said she, 'go take your rest,

Safe for to-morrow stands the nest; · His harvest work he long attends, • Who leaves the labour to his friends.'

Next morn abroad the mother goes More food to get, and sooth their woes. At length the Farmer hobbles by To see his friends cut down the rye; But sees he came, alas ! too soon, Tho' the high sun proclaim'd it noon. Our friends,' quoth he, with looks demure, Of late are wond'rous lazy, sure; · Well, we'll our kindred's good-will try, • To-morrow they shall cut the rye.'

The Larks thought now all past relief, The dam returns, they tell their grief;— 'Peace,' quoth the mother, ‘ yet you're safe, . And at to-morrow's work may laugh.'

At break of day the clownish pair Again unto the field repair : Untouch'd they saw the rye still stand, And not a cousin, near at hand : . Well,' quoth the sire, 'the ties of blood • And friendship I've ill understood; * To-morrow, ere the sun you see, . Two sickles bring for you and me; • Our friends, our kindred long may stay, . • Let us the harvest bear away.'

When the young Larks this news repeat, - Hence,' cries the dam, 'we all must get ;

Your legs, your wings, my children, try, . For down to-morrow goes the rye.', That never bid your friends pursue, Which you without their aid can do.



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LET others with poetic fire
In raptures praise the tuneful choir,
The Linnet, Chaffinch, Goldfinch, Thrush,
And ev'ry warbler of the bush ; : .....
I sing the mimic Magpie's fame,
In wicker Cage well fed and tame.

In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradesman nam’d Tom Moore.
Gen'rous and open as the day, .
But passionately fond of play,
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazárd is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.

In basket prison hung on high, .
With dappled coat and watchful eye,

A fav'rite Magpie sees the play,
And mimics ev'ry word they say.
Oh! how he nicks us, Tom Moore cries,
Oh! how he nicks us, Mag replies;
Tom throws, and eyes the glitt'ring store,
And, as he throws, exclaims Tom Moore !
Tom Moore the mimic bird replies;
The astonish'd gamesters lift their eyes,
And wond'ring stare, and look around;
As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.

This dissipative life, of course,
Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse ;
Nor prayers nor promises prevail
To keep him from a dreary gaol.

And, now, between each heartfelt sigh,
Tom oft exclaims Bad Company!
Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate,
Exclaims from out his wicker grate,
Bad Company! Bad Company! ::
Then views poor Tom with curious eye,
And cheers his master's wretched hours
By this display of mimic powers.
Th' imprison'd bird, tho' much caress'd,
Is still by anxious cares oppressid,
In silence mourns his cruel fate,
And oft explores his prison grate.

Observe, thro' life you'll always find
A fellow-feeling makes us kind.
So Tom resolves immediately
To give poor Mag his liberty; .

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