Good people all, of every sort,
  Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
  It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
  Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
  Whene’er he went to pray...

No more of Zephyr's airy robe I'll sing,

Or balmy odours dropping from his wing,

Or how his spicy breath revives the lands,

And curls the waves which roll o'er crystal sands.

No more I'll paint the glowing hemisphere...


Melpomene, now strike a mournful string,

Montgomery's fate assisting me to sing!

Thou saw him fall upon the hostile plain

Yet ting'd with blood that gush'd from Moncalm's veins,

Where gallant Wolfe for conquest gave...