ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
, "Written by Mr. Cunningham, about Three Weeks before his Death" Morning Chronicle and London Advertiser (16 October 1788).
1764: James Woodhouse
1765: T. O.
1766: J. R.
1766: C. B., M.D.
1766: Author of the Cook's Tale
1773: John Cunningham
1773: J. W.
1773: W. K-x, jun.
1773: Robert Fergusson
1774: H. W.
1775: W. Holland
1776: William Hawkins
1778: William Hawkins
1789: Mr. Tyson
1789: John Williams
1790 ca.: Joseph Ritson
1802: George Saville Carey
1802: David Carey
1804: William Mudford
1809: Stephen George Kemble
1824: Bryan Waller Procter
1860: George Gilfillan
1882: Epes Sargent
1922: Iolo Williams
1763: William Shenstone
1764: Rev. Charles Churchill
1764: William Julius Mickle
1766: David Hume
1766: Rev. Jonathan Swift
1773: John Cunningham
Dear Lad, as you run o'er my rhime,
And see my long name at the end,
You'll cry — "And has Cunningham time
To give so much verse to his friend?"
'Tis true, the reproof (tho' severe,)
Is just from the letters I owe;
But, blameless I still may appear,
For nonsense is all I bestow.
However, for better, for worse,
As Damons their Chloes receive,
Ev'n take the dull lines I rehearse—
They're all a poor friend has to give.
The Drama and I have shook hands,
We've parted, no more to engage;
Submissive, I met her commands—
For nothing can cure me of age.
My sunshine of youth is no more!
My mornings of pleasure are fled!
'Tis painful my fate to endure—
A pension supplies me with bread!
Dependent at length on the man
Whose fortunes I struggl'd to raise!
I conquer my pride as I can—
His charity merits my praise!
His bounty proceeds from his heart;
'Tis principle prompts the supply—
His kindness exceeds my desert,
And often suppresses a sigh.
But, like the Old Horse in the song,
I'm turn'd on the common to graze—
To Fortune these changes belong,
And, contented, I yield to her ways!
She ne'er was my friend! — Thro' the day
Her smiles were the smiles of deceit:
At noon she'd her favours display,
And at night let me pine at her feet.
No longer her presence I court,
No longer I shrink at her frowns!
Her whimsies supply me with sport,
And her smiles I resign to the Clowns!
Thus lost to each worldly desire,
And scorning all riches — all fame,
I quietly hope to retire
When time shall the summons proclaim.
I've nothing to weep for behind!
To part with my friends is the worst!
Their numbers, I grant, are confin'd;
But, you are still one of the first.