EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD FORBES
Nature, a jealous mistress, laid him low.
He wooed and won her; and, by love made bold,
She showed him more than mortal man should know—
Then slew him lest her secret should be told.
HOW'S MY BOY?
"Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy—my boy?"—
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"
"My boy John—
He that went to sea—
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from the sea,
And not know my John?
I might as well have asked some landsman,
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But knows my John.
"How's my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no—
Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no—
"Sure, his ship was the Jolly Briton—"
"Speak low, woman, speak low!