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British Wonders

Or, A Poetical Description of the Several Prodigies and Most Remarkable Accidents That have happen'd in Britain since the Death of Queen Anne [by Edward Ward]

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The next Disaster that befel,
Before the drooping Cows grew well,
Was that unhappy Chance among
The Scaffolds, when the Joyful Throng
Were gazing at the Grand Procession,
That grac'd the pompous Coronation,
Where Lords and Ladies flam'd as bright
By Day, as wand'ring Stars by Night,
And where the Hanoverian Line
Did all the British Race outshine,
And in their Robes and Jewels dress'd,
Look'd far more glorious than the rest:
But as in solemn Pomp they mov'd,
Much honour'd, shouted and approv'd,
A Scaffold loaded with a crowd
Of fond Spectators, humbly bow'd

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Its Props and Stancheons to the Great
Supporters of the Church and State,
Whose solemn Grandeur aw'd the Boards,
To fall before such mighty Lords,
Proclaiming, in a crackling sound,
Their Joy, as tumbling to the Ground,
The only Homage Wood could pay
To such a Train, on such a Day.
But O! the doleful Shrieks and Cries,
That of a sudden did arise
Between both Sexes, when they found
The Scaffold tumbling to the Ground.
No Sailors in a foundring Ship
Half swallow'd in the foaming Deep,
Could in their Pray'rs and Groans express
More dreadful signals of Distress;
For soon as e'er each yielding Prop
Gave way, and Seats began to drop,
Their loud Huzza's and Loyal Peals
Of Joy, were turn'd to Cries and Yells;

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Some roaring out, My Back, my Back!
Like Wretches tort'ring on the Rack;
And some that met with diff'rent Harms,
Bawl'd out, My Legs! or, O my Arms!
All, Helter Skelter, in disorder,
Some crying, Help; and others, Murder.
The Ladies, who were dress'd as gay
As could be, for so bless'd a Day,
Suffer'd much more in this Mischance,
Than their kind Husbands or Gallants;
Some losing all their Fin'ry off
Their Heads, became the Rabble's Scoff;
For tho' they look'd so Plump and Young,
When round with Flanders Laces hung,
Yet, when unrigg'd, their Crowns appear'd
As bald, as those for Age rever'd;
Whilst others, with their Heels upright,
Expos'd a more crinif'rous Sight,
Squeaking, with Voices almost spent,
Like tender Girls in Ravishment.

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Some well-dress'd lofty-seated Lasses,
Tumbling from high to lower Classes,
O'erwhelm'd inferiour Blades and Beaus,
With their hoop'd Coats and Furbiloes;
Some sneaking out their Heads, bereft
Of Wigs, which they behind had left
In sacred Mansions, where could be
No search, 'thout breach of Modesty;
Whilst others, who had plung'd their Locks
'Twixt Sattin Skins and Holland Smocks,
Brought forth about their wreaking Ears,
Th' unsav'ry Dregs of Female Fears;
An Accident so very spightful,
That made the Suff'rers look as frightful
As pelted Wretches, just set free
From rotten Eggs and Pillory.
Thus crowds of Mortals struggling lay,
Among the Planks, in sad dismay;
Some mixing their expiring Groans
With others dismal Cries and Moans,

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Whilst all the neighb'ring Surgeons swarm'd
Around the fatal Ruins, arm'd
With Lancets, Balsams, Rags and Plasters,
Adapted to the Crowds Disasters;
Each laying hold of whom they cou'd,
To set their Bones, or let 'em Blood,
Or do what they conceiv'd most crafty,
For their own Good and Patient's Safety;
Thus Surgeons, like to Lawyers, make
The best of what they undertake;
And tho' they cure our Ailings first,
The After-clap proves always worst.