 | Poems |  |
202
IDEAS OF TIME.
Time's the great father of our race,
Dress'd like an antient mower;
He often seems to mend his pace,
Tho' never once went slower.
Dress'd like an antient mower;
He often seems to mend his pace,
Tho' never once went slower.
Imprison'd slaves accuse him,
The infant can't implore him;
And Britain's youth abuse him,
And spendthrifts run before him.
The infant can't implore him;
And Britain's youth abuse him,
And spendthrifts run before him.
The drunk in Claret steep him,
Unmarried girls intreat him;
The watch are paid to keep him,
And rude musicians beat him.
Unmarried girls intreat him;
The watch are paid to keep him,
And rude musicians beat him.
But spite of all these mortals do,
Their Parent to enthral;
He'll call Oblivion to his aid,
And extirpate them all.
Their Parent to enthral;
He'll call Oblivion to his aid,
And extirpate them all.
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