E L E G Y
Who departed this Life January 20th, 1718.
WHY, why dull Poets of this canker'd Age,
Affright you young Beginners with your Rage?
I oft design'd to writ, ye never durst,
By hateful Criticks fearing to be curst :
But so sublime a Theme my Pen inspires,
And in my Bread kindles Poetick Fires,
Whilst all the Muses join and tune their Lyres,
How could I chuse but raise a mournful Verse,
Since 'tis t' adorn great Lucky Gibson's Hearse.
Could I be silent ? None, but Hearts of Stone,
Can forbear Bleeding, all her, loss bemoan ;
Since ( oh hard Fate! ) the cruel Hand of Death,
Has stoln away from her, our Patriot's, Breath.
Patriot indeed, who to her Country just,
Ne'er sail'd to quench the raging Flames of Lust.
To all that came her Charity inclin'd,
So latent were the Graces of her Mind,
That where in Pouch a splendid Shilling was,
With her none wanted Bed or bonny Lass.
Her Cottage to both Sexes always free,
And her kind Word was, Welcome all to me.
Where amorous Couples might their Hours imploy,
And without Curb each others Wish enjoy.
Oh! Abbay, Abbay, hang thy drooping Head,
For now thy greatest Patriot's from the fled.
Well may'st thou mourn indeed since Lucky's dead.
T was her that till'd thy Walks with Beaux and Cits,
With Lords and Lairds, with Rakes, with Fools and Wits.
And often the grave fumbling lecher Saint,
With his starcht Band did in thy Yards frequent;
Because in Secret Lucky gave content.
Mourn, mourn ye Couples, who have tast'd the Sweet
Of am'rous Dalliance in her safe Retreat.
Ye courteous Damsels, that e'er Lucky knew,
Wail her Hard Fate, your Cheeks with Tears bedew ;
Well may ye be in Seas of Sorrows tost,
Since such a tender Mother ye have lost.
Mourn, mourn ye Men of Pleasure round the Town,
And your past Joy in Sense of Sorrow drown:
For oft you'l want a Place to rest your Head,
In all your Rambles, now since Lucky's Dead.
Let all with me Lucky's hard Fortune mourn,
And with unfeigned Sorrow greet her Urn,
For further Praises here none need I name;
Her Works are record in the Book of Fame:
Oblivion will ne'er wash out her Days,
Nor Death can take with him her living Praise:
For tho' in mouldring Earth her Body's cast,
Her Fame and Memory will Ages last.
Under this Stone is Lucky laid,
Who still was kind to Man and Maid :
Stop Passenger, and as you ready
Pray shed a Tear, since Gibson's dead.
View Commentary | Download PDF Facsimile
Date of publication:
1718 shelfmark: Ry.III.c.36(037)
View larger image