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A postscript to the new Bath guide

A Poem by Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]

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THE FUTURE TENSE,
  
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102

THE FUTURE TENSE,

A TALE.

THE tongue, oft innocently, coineth errors,
Pregnant with mischief, and resistless terrors:
If you've a son whose wishes prompt to go
Through kingdoms insular or 'yond the Po;
Before on rude or civil isles you land him,
Be sure the native million understand him.
A Poor Gascon fell plump into a river,
Who'd been in Britain half a year or more;
Just as the water 'gan to cool his liver,
He call'd for aid from Trav'llers on the shore:
One of the gazing crew was instant stript,
To rescue the faint alien from the stream;

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But scarce into the flood had leapt,
Before the luckless oaf was heard to scream
In wild despair,
Tearing his raven hair,
I will be drown'd—I will be drown'd,
Nobody shall give me help:
The other cried, disgusted at the sound,
If that's the case—in God's name take your fill,
I meant you well, but you shall have your will.
A circling eddy gathering round his head,
Involv'd the luckless whelp,
Who mingled with the dead.