7
They tell me Tom has got a wife.
whose portion will make him the richer,|
I envy not his happy life,
give me good health, my friend & pitcher.
It's not yet day, it's not yet day,
then why should we leave good liquor,
'Till the sun beams around us play,
we'll sit and take the other pitcher.
It's not yet day, &c.
THE DEATH OF WOLFE.
In a mouldering cave a wretched retreat,
Britannia sat wasted with care:
She wept for her Wolfe, then exclaim'd against Fate,
and gave herself up to despair.
The walls of her cell she had sculptur'd around,
With th' exploits of her favorite son;
Nay, even the dust, as it lay on the ground,
Was engrav'd with some deeds he had done.
The fire of the gods from his chrystaline throne,
Beheld the disconsolate dame,
Being mov'd with her tears, sent Mercury down.
And these were the tidings that came:
"Britannia, forbear, not a sigh nor a tear,
For thy Wolfe, so deservedly lov'd ;
Thy grief shall be chang'd into tumults of joy,
For Wolfe is not dead, but remov'd.
