University of Virginia Library

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LETTER TO HIS MOTHER 14 FEBRUARY 1795

Dear Mother, I attempt to write you a letter
In verse, tho' in prose, I could do it much better:
The Muse, this cold weather sleeps up at Parnassus,
And leaves us, poor poets, as stupid as asses:
She'll tarry still longer, if she has a warm chamber,
A store of old Massic, Ambrosia, and Amber.
Dear Mother, don't laugh, you may think she is tipsy,
And I, if a poet, must drink like a gipsy:
Suppose, I should borrow, the horse of Jack Stenton;
A finer ridden beast, no Muse ever went on;
Pegasus's fleet wings, perhaps, are now frozen;
I'll send her old Stenton's, I know, I've well chosen;
Be it frost, be it thaw, the horse can well canter;
The sight of the beast, cannot help, to enchant her.
All the boys at our school, are well, tho', yet, many
Are suffer'd at home, to suck eggs with their Granny.
“To-morrow” says daddy, “you must go my dear Billy,
To Englefield House; do not cry, you are silly.”
Says the Mother, all dress'd in silk, and in sattin;
“Don't cram the poor boy, with your Greek, and your Latin;

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I'll have him a little longer, before mine own eyes;
To nurse him, and feed him, with tarts, and minc'd pies;
We'll send him to school, when the weather is warmer:
Come, kiss me, my pretty, my sweet little charmer.”
But now I must banish all fun, and all folly;
So doleful's the news, I am going to tell ye:
Poor Wade! my schoolfellow, lies low in the gravel;
One month ere fifteen, put an end to his travel:
Harmless, and mild, and remark'd for goodnature:
The cause of his death, was his overgrown stature:
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below;
What tribute more friendly, could I on him bestow.
The bard craves one shilling, of his own dear Mother;
And if you think proper, add to it another.