Ceas’d as to thee, my daily care,
Fix’d are thine eyes in one still glare,
For thou poor Bun art dead.
To Fancy’s view thy strugglings rise,
Methinks I hear thy piteous cries,
Thy unavailing moans:
Soft Pity’s tear bedews the eye,
To see thy mangled body lye,
And view thy scatter’d bones.
Come ye young train, who lov’d his play,