Clio, behold this charming Day,

The Zephyrs blow, the Sun looks gay,

The Sky one perfect Blue;

Can you refuse at such a Time,

When F—x and I both beg for Rhyme,

To sing us something new?

The Goddess smil'd, and thus begun:

I've got a pleasing Theme, my Son,

I'll sing the conquer'd D—s;

I'll sing of that disdainful Fair

Who, scap'd from Scotch and English Snare, 

Is fast in Irish Clutches.

Sunk is her Pow'r, her Sway is o'er,

She'll be no more ador'd, no more

Shine forth the publick Care: 

Oh! what a Falling-off is here,

From her whose Frowns made Wisdom fear,

Whose Scorn begot Despair!

Wide was th'Extent of her Commands,

O'er fertile Fields, o'er barren Lands

She stretch'd her haughty Reign:

The Coxcomb, Fool, and Man of Sense,

Youth, Manhood, Age, and Impotence

With Pride receiv'd her Chain.

Her L—c—t—r offer'd brutal Love,

Here gentle C—b—r—y gently strove

With Sighs to fan Desire;

Here C—h—l snor'd his Hours away,

Here drowsy S—n—pe every Day

Sat out her Gr—'s Fire.

Here constant B—t—n too we saw

Kneeling with reverential Awe,

T'adore his high-flown Choice;

Where you, my F—x, have sigh'd whole Days,

Forgetting Kings and Peoples Praise,

Deaf to Ambition's Voice.

What Cloaths you made! how fine you drest!

What Dresden China for her Feast!

But I'll no longer teaze you;

Yet 'tis a Truth you can't deny,

Tho' Lady C—r—l—e is nigh,

And does not look quite easy.

But careful Heaven design'd her Grace

For one of the Milesian Race,

On stronger Parts depending;

Nature indeed denies them Sense,

But gives them Legs and Impudence,

That beats all Understanding.

Which to accomplish, H—s—y came,

Op'ning before the noble Dame

His honourable Trenches;

Nor of Rebukes nor Frowns afraid,

He push'd his Way (he knew his Trade,)

And won the Place by Inches.

Look down, St. Patrick, with Success,

Like H—s—ys all the Irish bless,

May they all do as he does;

And still preserve their Breed the same,

Cast in his Mould, made in his Frame,

To comfort English Widows.