Maria’s jaunty stagger
     The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? 
     Whose spleen (e’en worse than Burns’ venom, when
     He dips in gall unmix’d his eager pen,
     And pours his vengeance in the burning line,)—­
     Who christen’d thus Maria’s lyre-divine
     The idiot strum of Vanity bemus’d,
     And even the abuse of Poesy abus’d?—­
     Who called her verse a Parish Workhouse, made
     For motley foundling Fancies, stolen or strayed?

     A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
     And pillows on the thorn my rack’d repose! 
     In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
     And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep;
     That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore,
     And vermin’d gipsies litter’d heretofore.

     Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? 
     Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? 
     Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
     And make a vast monopoly of hell? 
     Thou know’st the Virtues cannot hate thee worse;
     The Vices also, must they club their curse? 
     Or must no tiny sin to others fall,
     Because thy guilt’s supreme enough for all?

     Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares;
     In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
     As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls,
     Who on my fair one Satire’s vengeance hurls—­
     Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
     A wit in folly, and a fool in wit! 
     Who says that fool alone is not thy due,
     And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true!

     Our force united on thy foes we’ll turn,
     And dare the war with all of woman born: 
     For who can write and speak as thou and I? 
     My periods that deciphering defy,
     And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply!

Epitaph On A Noted Coxcomb

     Capt.  Wm. Roddirk, of Corbiston.

     Light lay the earth on Billy’s breast,
     His chicken heart so tender;
     But build a castle on his head,
     His scull will prop it under.

On Capt.  Lascelles

     When Lascelles thought fit from this world to depart,
     Some friends warmly thought of embalming his heart;
     A bystander whispers—­“Pray don’t make so much o’t,
     The subject is poison, no reptile will touch it.”

On Wm. Graham, Esq., Of Mossknowe

     “Stop thief!” dame Nature call’d to Death,
     As Willy drew his latest breath;
     How shall I make a fool again? 
     My choicest model thou hast ta’en.

On John Bushby, Esq., Tinwald Downs

     Here lies John Bushby—­honest man,
     Cheat him, Devil—­if you can!

Sonnet On The Death Of Robert Riddell