“Hard by yon wall, where not a lamp appears, “Skulking in quest of booty would he wait; “Now as a beggar shedding artful tears, “Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. “One night I miss’d him at th’ accustom’d place, “The seven-faced Pillar and his favourite wall: “Another came, nor yet I saw his face; “The post, the crossings, were deserted all. “At last, in dismal cart and sad array, “Backward up Holborn-hill I saw him mount: “Here you may read (for you can read, you say) “His Epitaph in th’ Ord’nary’s Account.” THE EPITAPH. Here festering rots a _quondam_ pest of earth, To virtue and to honest shame unknown; Low-cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth; Vice clapp’d her hands, and mark’d him for her own. Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark; In lucky knavery lay all his hope; No pains he spar’d, and seldom miss’d his mark, So gain’d (’twas what he merited) a rope. If further you his villainies would know, And genuine anecdotes desire to meet, Go read the story of his weal and woe, Printed and sold by Simpson, near The Fleet. The exact dates of the first appearance of this and the following parody are unknown, but they were both included in Vol. 2 of “_The Repository; a Select Collection of Fugitive Pieces of Wit and Humour_.” London, 1777. ――――:o:―――― AN ELEGY. _Written in Westminster Hall during the long Vacation._ (_Printed before_ 1777.) The courts are shut――departed every judge, Each greedy lawyer gripes his double fee: In doleful mood the suitors homeward trudge, And leave the hall to silence and to me. Now not a barrister attracts the sight, And all the dome a solemn stillness holds, Save at the entrance, where with all her might, The _Quean_ of Apples at the porter scolds: Save that at fives a group of wrangling boys At intervals pursue the bounding ball, Make Henderson,[5] the studious, damn their noise, When battering down the plaister from the wall From every court, with every virtue crown’d, Where many get, and many lose their bread, Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle, and confound, Attornies, clerks, and council――all are fled. Contending fools too stubborn to agree, The good fat client (name for ever dear!) The long-drawn brief, and spirit-stirring fee No more, ’till Michaelmas shall send them here. ’Till then, no more th’ Exchequer[6] nymphs shall run To fetch their wigs, and giggling stroke the tail, Or dressy orange-wenches ply their fun And offer their commodities to sale. With these the Templar oft has stopped to chat, And tipped them sixpence for each cake he broke; How jocund did they give him tit for tat! And bonnily return’d him joke for joke!