Pinned To Mrs. Walter Riddell’s Carriage

     If you rattle along like your Mistress’ tongue,
     Your speed will outrival the dart;
     But a fly for your load, you’ll break down on the road,
     If your stuff be as rotten’s her heart.

Epitaph For Mr. Walter Riddell

     Sic a reptile was Wat, sic a miscreant slave,
     That the worms ev’n damn’d him when laid in his grave;
     “In his flesh there’s a famine,” a starved reptile cries,
     “And his heart is rank poison!” another replies.

Epistle From Esopus To Maria

     From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,
     Where Infamy with sad Repentance dwells;
     Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,
     And deal from iron hands the spare repast;
     Where truant ’prentices, yet young in sin,
     Blush at the curious stranger peeping in;
     Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,
     Resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more;
     Where tiny thieves not destin’d yet to swing,
     Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: 
     From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date,
     To tell Maria her Esopus’ fate.

     “Alas!  I feel I am no actor here!”
     ’Tis real hangmen real scourges bear! 
     Prepare Maria, for a horrid tale
     Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
     Will make thy hair, tho’ erst from gipsy poll’d,
     By barber woven, and by barber sold,
     Though twisted smooth with Harry’s nicest care,
     Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
     The hero of the mimic scene, no more
     I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar;
     Or, haughty Chieftain, ’mid the din of arms
     In Highland Bonnet, woo Malvina’s charms;
     While sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
     And steal from me Maria’s prying eye. 
     Blest Highland bonnet! once my proudest dress,
     Now prouder still, Maria’s temples press;
     I see her wave thy towering plumes afar,
     And call each coxcomb to the wordy war: 
     I see her face the first of Ireland’s sons,
     And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze;
     The crafty Colonel leaves the tartan’d lines,
     For other wars, where he a hero shines: 
     The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred,
     Who owns a Bushby’s heart without the head,
     Comes ’mid a string of coxcombs, to display
     That veni, vidi, vici, is his way: 
     The shrinking Bard adown the alley skulks,
     And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks: 
     Though there, his heresies in Church and State
     Might well award him Muir and Palmer’s fate: 
     Still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
     And dares the public like a noontide sun. 
     What scandal called