He’s plaister’d and poultic’d, in linen rags rob’d,
Fir’d, purg’d, and bolus’d, cut, syring’d, and prob’d;
Till burning like stones that are turn’d into lime,
Alas! luckless P⸺o’s cut off in his prime.
Lament the hard fate this sad story informs,
The high-mettl’d P⸺o’s made food for the worms.
BOTANY BAY.
Tune, Liberty Hall.
Britannia, fair guardian of this favour’d land,