ON DR. SANGRADO'S FLIGHT

On prancing steed, with spunge at nose,

From town behold Sangrado fly;

Camphor and Tar where'er he goes

Th’ infected shafts of death defy —

Safe in an atmosphere of scents,

He leaves us to our own defence.

‘ Twas right to fly! for well, I ween,

In Stygian worlds, all scribes agree,

No blushing blossom e'er was seen,

Or running brook, or budding tree:

No splendid meats, no flowing bowls,

Smile on the meagre feast of souls:

No sprightly songs, to banish grief,

No balls, the Elysian beaus prepare,

And he that throve on rounds of beef,

On onion shells shall famish there —

Monarchs are there of little note,

And Caesar wears a shabby coat.

Chloes on earth, of air and shape,

Whose eyes destroy'd poor love-lorn wights,

There lower their topsails to the cap,

Rig in their booms and furl their kites:—

Where Cupid's bow was never bent,

What lover asks a maid's consent?

All this, and more, Sangrado knew,

( In Lucian is the story told )

Took horse — clapped spurs — and off he flew,

Leaving his Sick to fret and scold;

Some soldiers, thus, to honour lost,

In day of battle quit their post.