ABSTRACT
Resign'd to live, prepar'd to die, With not one sin but poetry, This day TOM'S fair account has run (\Vithout a blot) to eighty one. Kind Boyle before his poet lays 5 A table with a cloth of bays; And Ireland, mother of sweet singers, Presents her harp still to his fingers, The feast, his towring genius marks In yonder wildgoose, and the larks! 10 The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden! And for his judgment 10 a pudden! Roast beef, tho' old, proclaims him stout, And grace, altho' a bard, devout. May TOM, whom heav'n sent down to raise 15 The price of prologues and of plays, Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner, Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner; Walk to his grave without reproach, And scorn a rascal and a coach! 20
A bishop by his Neighbours hated Has Cause to wish himself translated.
