Some sharp attorney must the captive hire, Who knows each secret winding of the laws; Some previous fees th’ attorney will require Before he ventures to conduct his cause, For you, who traverse up and down this shrine, And lounge and saunter at your wonted rate, If in some future chat, with arch design, Some wag should ask this Pettifogger’s fate; In sneering mood some brother quill may say, “I’ve seen him oft at ale-house table sit, “Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away, “And eye the mutton roasting on the spit. “There in the snug warm corner of the bench, “Part stain’d with grease, and part defil’d with beer “His thirst with cooling porter would he quench, “And bend his noddle o’er the Gazetteer. “Hard by yon steps, now grinning as in scorn, “Muttering his oaths and quibbles he would stand; “Now hanging down his pate like one forlorn, “As if some dread commitment was at hand. “One morn I miss’d him in this custom’d hall, “And at the Oak,[8] where he was wont to be, “His clerk came down, and answered to my call, “But by me stepp’d, nor at the Oak was he. “The next I heard (oh, melancholy tale! “On our profession was a foul reproach!) “That he for forgery was confin’d in jail, “And dragg’d (oh, shameful!) there without “a coach.” HIS CHARACTER. Vulture, the arrant’st rascal upon earth, At length is caught, and into Newgate thrown. Fair Honesty disclaim’d him at his birth, And Villainy confess’d him as her own. Grown old in sin, at no one crime dismay’d, ’Gainst nature’s cries he arm’d his callous heart, For when his father was to death convey’d, He growl’d, and damn’d the slowness of the cart. Jack Ketch, to shew his duty to his friend Will soon confirm it with the strongest tie; But on such ties what mortal would depend? A rogue he liv’d, and like a rogue he’ll die. Now prest with guilt, he feels its sharpest sting, Great his transgressions, and but small his hope, He gave the Sheriff (all he had!) a ring, He gain’d from justice (all he fear’d!) a rope. No farther seek his vices to disclose, But leave the culprit to his dark abode; There let him rest, till, breaking his repose, The hangman summons him to Tyburn-road. ――――:o:―――― AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN ST. STEPHENS. Gazettes now toll the melancholy knell, Of Statesmen fallen from their high degree; Whitehead disdains to ring their passing bell, And leaves the task to Printers and to me. Now fades Ambition’s landscape on the sight, Mock-patriot faces marks of sadness hold, Dire Disappointment hides his head in night, But Faction wakes to pen Addresses bold. In yonder stately rook’ry (Brookes’s fane) Nothing is heard but rout and wild uproar; Th’ affrighted Rooks forsake their wonted reign, _Tables are turn’d_, and _hazard_ is no more.