[The author of the following stanzas is JOHN BYROM, an ingenious poet, famous also as the inventor of a System of Stenography. He was born in 1691, and died in 1763. Byrom wrote poetry, or rather verse, with extraordinary facility. His pastoral, entitled "Colin and Phoebe," first published in the "Spectator," when the author was quite young, has been much admired. As literary curiosities, his poems are too interesting to be neglected; and their oddity well entitles them to the room they fill. The following poem is perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age; and we have selected it as a seasonable dish for the present number--trusting that its rich vein of humour may find a kindred flow in the hearts of our readers.] CARELESS CONTENT. I am content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, I got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content. With more of thanks and less of thought, I strive to make my matters meet; To seek what ancient sages sought, Physic and food in sour and sweet: To take what passes in good part, And keep the hiccups from the heart. With good and gentle humour'd hearts, I choose to chat where'er I come, Whate'er the subject be that starts: But if I get among the glum, I hold my tongue to tell the truth, And keep my breath to cool my broth. For chance or change of peace or pain; For Fortune's favour or her frown; For lack or glut, for loss or gain, I never dodge, nor up nor down: But swing what way the ship shall swim, Or tack about with equal trim. I suit not where I shall not speed, Nor trace the turn of ev'ry tide; If simple sense will not succeed I make no bustling, but abide: For shining wealth, or scaring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe. Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of the're i'th' wrong, and we're i'th' right, I shun the rancours and the routs, And wishing well to every wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes. With whom I feast I do not fawn, Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; If wonted welcome he withdrawn, I cook no kind of a complaint: With none dispos'd to disagree, But like them best who best like me. Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave; But fame shall find me no man's fool, Nor to a set of men a slave. I love a friendship free and frank, And hate to hang upon a hank. Fond of a true and trusty tie, I never loose where'er I link; Tho' if a bus'ness budges by, I talk thereon just as I think; My word, my work, my heart, my hand, Still on a side together stand. If names or notions make a noise, Whatever hap the question hath, The point impartially I poise, And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains?