POETRY. 439
A fnub-nos'd dog to fat inclin'd. Of the true hogan-mogan kind, The fav'rice of an Englilh dame. Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name. One morning as he chanc'd to range. Met honed Towzer on the change. And who have we got here, I beg ? Quoth he,— and lifted up his leg; An Englifh dog can't take an airing But foreign fcoundrels mull be llaring. I'd have your French, and all your Spanifh, And all the Dutch, and all the Danilh, By which our fpecies is confounded. Be hang'd, be poifon'd, or be drowned. Well, of all dogs it is confefs'd. Your Englifh bull-dogs are the bell. I fay it, and will fet my hand to't, Camden records it, and I'll ftand to't.
- Tis true, we have too much urbanity.
Are overcharg'd with foft humanity.
The bed things muft find food_ for railing.
And ev'ry creature has its failing.
And who are you, reply'd Van Trump,
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of didraftion.
The land of party and of faftion ?
In all fair Europe who but we
For national csconomy.
For wealth and peace, that have more charms
Than learned arts, or noify arras ^
You envy us our dancing bogs,
With all the mufic of the frogs,
Join'd to the Tretchfcu-z, bonny loon.
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune ;
For poets, and the mufes nine.
Beyond comparifon we fhine ;
Oh 1 how we ^varble in our gizzards,
W^ith XX's, HH's, and with ZZ's.
For fighting — now yo:i think I'm joking.
We love itbetter far than fmoaking ;
Afk but our troops from man to boy.
Who all furviv'd at Fontenoy;
'Tis true as friends, and as allies.
We're ever ready to devife
Our love, or any kind affillance
That may be granted at a dirtance ;
And if you go to brag, good bye to'ye.
Nor dare to brave the high and raighcy,
F f 4- Wrong
