Returning to Domestic Loves, When War has ceased with all its Ills, Captains should come like sucking Doves, With Olive Branches in their Bills. No need there is of vulgar Shout, Bells, Cannons, Trumpets, Fife, and Drum, And Soldiers marching all about, To let Us know that Peace is come. Oh mild should be the Signs and meek, Sweet Peace’s Advent to proclaim! Silence her noiseless Foot should speak, And Echo should repeat the same. Lo! where the Soldier walks, alas! With Scars received on Foreign Grounds; Shall we consume in Coloured Glass The Oil that should be pour’d in Wounds? The bleeding Gaps of War to close, Will whizzing Rocket-Flight avail? Will Squibs enliven Orphans’ Woes? Or Crackers cheer the Widow’s Tale? TO MR. ISAAK WALTON, AT MR. MAJOR’S THE BOOKSELLER’S IN FLEET STREET. Mr. Walton, it’s harsh to say it, but as a Parent I can’t help wishing You’d been hung before you publish’d your book, to set all the young people a fishing! There’s my Robert, the trouble I’ve had with him it surpasses a mortal’s bearing, And all thro’ those devilish angling works--the Lord forgive me for swearing! I thought he were took with the Morbus one day, I did with his nasty angle! For “oh dear,” says he, and burst out in a cry, “oh my gut is all got of a tangle!” It’s a shame to teach a young boy such words--whose blood wouldn’t chill in their veins To hear him, as I overheard him one day, a-talking of blowing out brains? And didn’t I quarrel with Sally the cook, and a precious scolding I give her, “How dare you,” says I, “for to stench the whole house by keeping that stinking liver?” Twas enough to breed a fever, it was! they smelt it next door at the Bagots’,-- But it wasn’t breeding no fever--not it! ’twas my son a breeding of maggots! I declare that I couldn’t touch meat for a week, for it all seemed tainting and going, And after turning my stomach so, they turned to blueflies, all buzzing and blowing; Boys are nasty enough, goodness knows, of themselves, without putting live things in their craniums; Well, what next? but he pots a whole cargo of worms along with my choice geraniums. And another fine trick, tho’ it wasn’t found out, till the housemaid had given us warning, He fished at the golden fish in the bowl, before we were up and down in the morning. I’m sure it was lucky for Ellen, poor thing, that she’d got so attentive a lover, As bring her fresh fish when the others deceas’d, which they did a dozen times over! Then a whole new loaf was short! for I know, of course, when our bread goes faster,-- And I made a stir with the bill in my hand, and the man was sent off by his master; But, oh dear, I thought I should sink thro’ the earth, with the weight of my own reproaches,