3
Defeated, sham'd,
Our sire exclaim’d,
‘My sons, high heaven disposes;—
On thorns we tread,
Yet those we dread,
Ne’er sleep on a Bed of Roses.’
We wander’d long on mountains wild,
As hardy hunters living;
In humble hut, at grandeur smil’d,
Our father’s hopes reviving.
When battle once more rag’d below,
He fought, till captur’d by the foe;
Chain’d by harsh law,
On bed of straw,
‘Still, heaven’ he cried, ‘disposes!
My sons, behold,
In honour bold,
I die on a Bed of Roses.’
THE LAST SHILLING.
As pensive one night in my garret I sat,
My last shilling produc’d on the table,
That advent’rer, cried I, might a hist’ry relate,
If to think and to speak it were able;
Whether fancy or magic ’twas play’d me the freak,
The face seem’d with life to be filling,
And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,
Pay ’ttention to me, thy last shilling.
