AIR VI.
[_]
Tune, “Dole and woe fa our Cat.
I
How often our Mother has told,
And sure she is wonderous wise!
In cities, that all you behold,
Is a fair, but a faithless disguise:
That the modes of a court education
Are train-pits, and traitors to youth;
And the only fine language in fashion,
A tongue that is foreign to truth.
II
Where Honor is barely an oath;
Where knaves are with noblemen class'd;
Where nature's a stranger to both;
And love an old tale of times past
Where laughter no pleasure dispenses,
Where smiles are the envoys of art;
Where joy lightly swims on the senses,
But never can enter the heart.
III
Where hopes and kind hugs are trepanners;
Where Virtue's divorc'd from success;
Where cringing goes current for manners,
And worth is no deeper than dress.
Where Favour creeps lamely, on crutches;
Where Friendship is nothing but face;
And the title of Duke, or of Duchess,
Is all that entitles to Grace.
