LABOUR IN VAIN.

A SONG, AN HUNDRED YEARS OLD.

To the Tune of "Molly Mogg."

I.

YE patriots, who twenty long years

Have struggled our rights to maintain View the end of your labours and fears,

And see them all ended in vain.

II.

Behold! in the front stands your Hero, Behind him his patriot train;

Hear him rail at a tyrant and Nero;

Yet his railing all ended in vain.

III.

Then see him attack a Convention,
And calling for vengeance on Spain;

What pity such noble contention

And spirit should end all in vain!

;

IV.

That the Place-bill he got for the nation,
Was only a shadow, is plain;

For now 'tis a clear demonstration,
The substance is ended in vain.

V.

His bloody and horrible vow,

Which once gave the Courtiers such pain,

No longer alarums them now,

For his threats are all ended in vain.

VI.

What though the Committee have found,
That Ord's a traitor in grain;

Yet wiser than they may compound,
And justice be ended in vain.

VII.

How certain would be our undoing,

Should the people their wishes obtain ?

Then to save us from danger of ruin,

He has ended our wishes in vain.

VIII.

Then let us give thanks and be glad,
That he knew how our passions to rein,
And wisely prevented the bad,

By ending the good all in vain.

IX.

About Brutus let Rome disagree,

We won't from our praises refrain ; Our Brutus has more cause than he

To declare even virtue in vain.

X.

Three thousand five hundred a year,
He valu'd it not of a grain;

His scorn of such filth is most clear,
Since that too he ended in vain.

XI.

Corruption he hates like a toad,

And calls it the National Bane,

Yet damn'd Ts, his virtue to load,
Say, that all is not ended in vain.

XII.

He rejects all employments and places,

And thinks ev'ry pension a stain; Yet T-s, with their damn'd sly faces, Say, that all is not ended in vain.

XIII.

In spite of his caution and care,
To avoid the appearance of gain,
Say those Tories, his wife has a share,
And all is not ended in vain.

THE EXPIRING SWAN,

ON LOSING HER MATE.

Written in 1741.

Tune "The Dying Swan."

WHEN Phoebus coursing to the West,

His warmer beams withdrew;

Inviting kindly all to rest,

And bid the plains adieu;

As then in silence all things lay,

Bright Luna's charms display'd, The Goddess deck'd in silver ray, Supply'd the day decay'd.

On Thames' delightful crystal stream,
A dying Swan complain'd;
While sad departing love's her theme,
Her mournful throat thus strain'd: