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Sophia's Letter to the B---r---n Ger---b

or Whiskers in the Dumps. With Old Sighs Set to New Tunes. A Poem [by George Daniel]

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Night round the globe her curtains spread,
And ghosts all cloath'd in white and red,
As stories tell, and old romances,
Began their evening country dances.
The fox, for ever on his guard,
Plays havoc in the farmer's yard;
And fond, no doubt, of pretty pickings,
Snaps up by wholesale geese and chickens.
The miser now unlocks his store,
And counts his precious guineas o'er,
While some poor bard from bailiffs snug,
Writes pastorals beneath a rug.
Now wolves and bears desert their caverns,
And bucks, and bloods reel out from taverns,

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Flush'd with the juice of Tuscan grape,
Ripe for a watchouse, or a rape.—
In short, to make my story plain,
(For much I love a simple strain,)
Each honest man had turn'd his lock,
And watchmen bawl'd out “Twelve o'clock.”
In a snug room beside the fire,
Pensive, and musing on Sophia,
Sat that important chief, Ge---b!!
To Mars, great god of war, bound 'prentice,
Who mow'd down all his foes by twenties,
Though now as gentle as a lamb.
His cup of coffee first he blew,
Then penn'd a tender billet doux,
Then call'd Von Tromp, who sat beside him,
To read that dire tremendous list,
Of all he'd kill'd, and all he'd miss'd,
Of bravos bold who had defied him.
His wand'ring eyes with looks profound,
Now sought the sky, and now the ground,
And now he grinn'd, and now he frown'd,
Look'd wond'rous dull, and wond'rous witty;

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Oft did he heave a bitter sigh,
And call Von Tromp he knew not why,
And cast a fond enquiring eye,
O'er some love tale, or plaintive ditty.
“Von Tromp,” he cried, “to ease my mind,
To sorrow, Ah! how much inclin'd,
Read something, t'will afford relief.”
Von Tromp obey'd, and chose this story,
Which, reader, I will lay before ye,
A pretty story—pert and brief.