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Poor Ass! thy Master should have learnt to shew
Tell me, on what holy ground
When Youth his faery reign began
And when, along the waves of woe,
But soon Reflection's
And though in distant climes to roam,
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care ; The opening bud to Heaven conveyed
And bade it blossom there.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE KING'S-ARMS,
FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE “MAN OF ROSS."
Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards,