45 
* Almacks! you. moan in vain 
® Each youth whofe -high toupee 
¢ Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capt 
head, 
“In humble Tyburn-top we fee; 
© Efplath’d with dirt and fun-burnt face 5 
&¥ar on before the ladies mend their pace, 
«© ’Che Macaroni fneers, and will not fee. 
« Dear loft companions of the coxcomb’s art, 
* Dear as a turkey to thefe famifh’d eyes, 
€ Dear as the ruddy port which warms my 
heart, 
¢ Ye funk amid the fainting Miffes’ cries— 
£ No more I-weep—They éo not flecp: 
* At yonder ball, a flovenly band, 
* | fee them fit; they linger yet, 
© Avengers of fair Nature’s hand; 
« With me in dreadful refolution join, 
6 To cror with one accord, and ftarve their 
curfed line.’ 
IV. 
“¢ Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 
4¢ The winding- fheet of -barber’s race ; 
<¢ Give ample room and verge encugh 
«$ ‘Their lengthen’d lanthorn jaws to trace. 
e¢ Wark the year, and mark the night, 
<¢ When all their fhops fhall echo with affright, 
<¢ Loud fcreams fhall thro’ St. James’s turrets 
ring, 
£¢ To fee, like Eton boy, the King! 
£¢ Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws 
€¢ That crape the foretops of our aching heads ; 
«‘ No longer England owns thy fribbiifh laws, 
«¢ No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds. 
«¢ They wait at Dover for the firft fair wind, 
¢ Soup-meagre in the van, and fnuff, roaft-beef 
‘chind. 
de 
€¢ Mighty barbers, mighty lords, 
«¢ Low on a greafy bench they lie! 
s¢ No pitying heart, or purfe, affords 
<¢ A fixpence for a mutton-pye ! 
<¢ Is the mealy ’prentice fled? 
*¢ Poor Coe is gone, all fupperlefs to bed. 
“© he {warm that in thy fhop each morning 
rat, 
¢¢ Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: 
#¢ Fair laughs the morn, when all the world 
are beaux, rk 
e¢ While vainly ftrutting thro’ a filly land, 
€¢ In fappifh train the puppy barber goes ; 
«¢ face on hisfhirt, and money at command, 
«* Regardlefs of the tkulking bailiff’s fway, 
¢¢ That hid in fome dark court expects his 
ev’ning prey. 
Vi. 
6¢ The porter-mug fill high, 
«¢ Baked curls and locks prepare ; 
&¢ Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live, 
“* Clofe by the grealy chair 
6¢ Fell thirit and famine lie, 
“¢ No more to art will beauteous nature give. 
s* Heard ye the gang of Fielding fay, 
‘6 Sir John* at lait we’ve found their haunt 
§* To defperation driv’n by hungry want, 
$* Thro’ the crammed laughing Fit they fteal 
; their way. 

* Sir John Fielding the active Police Magif- 
grate of that daye 
ra 
" Parody on Gray's Bard, by the Hon. T. Evfkine. - 
“Bright perfumed M** has cropp’d his head; 
[Auguf, 
“Ye tow’rs of Newgate!. Lendon’s lating — 
fhame, 
‘© By many a foul and midnight murder fed, 
«¢ Revere poor Mr. Coe, the black{mith’s + 
fame, {head 
“And fpare the grinning barber’s chuckle 
: Wit. 
«¢ Rafcals! we tread thee under foot, 
*¢ (Weave we the woof; the thread is fpun): 
‘< Our beards we pull out by the root ; 
“6¢ (The web is wove; your work is done).’? 
’ 
‘ Stay, ch ftay! nor thus forlorn 
¢ Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d, here to mourn, 
*-Thro’ the broad gate, that leads to College 
Hall, - ; 
‘ They melt, they fly, they-vanifh all. 
«But, oh! what happy fcenes of pure delight, 
Slow moving on their fimple charms unroll4 
© Ye rapt’rous vifions! {pare my aching fight, 
¢ Ye unborn beauties croud not on my foul! 
© No more our long-loft Coventry we wail : 
‘All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature’s 
iffue, hail! 
Vill. ‘ 
‘Not frizz’d and fritter’d, pinn*d and roll’d, 
¢ Sublime their artlefs locks they weary 
‘ And gorgeous damesy and judges old, 
‘ Without their ttes and wigs appear ; 
‘In the midft a form divine, 
* Her drefs befpeaks the Penfylyanian line, 
‘ Her portdemure, her grave, religious face, 
‘ Attemper’d {weet to viegin-grace. 
‘ What lylphs and {pirits wanton thro’ the air? 
« What crouds of little angels round her play! 
‘ Hear from thy fepulchre, great Pena! oh hear? 
“A fcene like this might animate thy clay. 
‘ Simplicity now foaring as fhe fings, 
4 Wayes in the eye of Heav’n her Quaker-cos 
Jour’d wings. 
IX. 
«No more toupees are feen 
‘ That mock at Alpine height, 
“And queues with many a yard of ribbon 
bound, 
© All now are vanifh’d quite. 
‘ No tongs, or torturing pin, 
‘ But ev’ry head is trimm’d quite indg 
around: 
6 Like boys of the cathedral choir, 
¢ Curls, fuch as Adam wore, we wear, 
‘ Fach fimpler generation blooms more fair, 
* Till all that’s artificial expire. 
‘ Vain puppy boy! think’{t thou yon’ effenc’d 
cloud, 
‘ Rais’d by thy puff, can vie with Nature*s 
hue? 
‘ ‘To-morrow fee the variegated croud 
* With ringlets fhining like the morning dew, 
‘ Enough for me: with joy I fee ss 
¢ The different dooms our fates affign : 
« Be thine to love thy trade and ftarve; 
¢ To wear what Heaven beftow’d be mine ;? " 
He faid, and headlong from the trap-ftairs® 
height, 
Quick thro’ the frozen ftreet, he ran in fhabby 
plight. 
+ Coe’s father, the blackf{mith of Came 
bridge. é 
ANECDOTES 
