Christopher Anstey Poems

You say, my Friend, that every day
Your company forsaking,
In quest of news I haste away,
The Morning Post to take in:
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To brush the cheeks of Ladies fair,
With genuine charms o'erspread,
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This Cenotaph is sacred
to the Memory
Of those departed Warriors,
of the seventy--ninth regiment,
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I am a decay'd macaroni,
My lodging's up three pair of stairs;
My cheeks are grown wondrously bony,
And grey, very grey, are my hairs:
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O! Johnson, learned, venerable shade,
What havock of thy fame hath friendship made,
What childish trophies round thy manly bust,
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Lo! where beside yon verdant plain
Sweet Avon winds his way,
And smiling laves thy rich demain,
Sir Peter Rivers Gay,
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Some wept, you say, when Coyghley was no more!
I wept, because he was not hang'd before.
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--Virtuous youth!
Thank Heav'n, I knew thee not--I ne'er shall feel
The keen regret thy drooping friends sustain;
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Worn with the raging gout's consuming fires,
The good Northumberland to Bath retires:
There Health awhile her flattering respite brings
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Not always o'er the meads and hills,
From low'ring clouds, the rain distils,
Nor storms with endless uproar sweep
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