says Pope jeeringly; Campbell has had his Exile of Erin vehemently claimed by a desperate wrestler for renown; and at this very time a schoolmaster in Scotland is ready to swear that the author of the "Burial of Sir John Moore" never wrote a line of it. But we now pass to another piece by Sir Fretful; and this, whether its sentiments be of a high or a low order, its imagery appropriate or incongruous, is entirely his own:—
Lives there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said,
"Shoot folly as it flies?"
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word farewell, farewell!
'Tis folly to be wise.
And what is friendship but a name,
That boils on Etna's breast of flame?
Thus runs the world away: