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January 1, 1767. No. 105.

The New-Year Verses

Of the Printers  LAD, who carries about the QUEBEC GAZETTE to the CUSTOMERS.

The old Year now is past and gone,

Thus a new Monarch mounts the Throne,

TIME, on its early, infant Stage,

Nor does it now, tho’ worn with Age,

It comes unask’d to ev’ry one,

But swift as Thought, ’tis past and gone,

It steals our Hours and Days and Years,

The Charms that blooming Beauty wears,

Towers, and Cities great and fair,

And Temples rising high in Air,

The Sculptor’s and the Painter’s Art,

And Form, and Colour can impart,

The noblest Works of Human Powers

Their most admired Parts devours,

Ev’en Life with all its flatt’ring Views,

And with incessant Strokes pursues,

Nations, who once their Power could boast,

By TIME are in Oblivion lost,

Thus TIME on earthly Glory preys,

And to Forgetfulness conveys

Yet there are happy Men whose Name,

But wafted on the Wings of Fame

To bless the Realm those Men arose,

The Dread and Curse of Freedom’s Foes,

Their Praise some Poet shall rehearse,

Whose deathless animated Verse

All these, of endless Praise secure,

Their Names for ever shall endure,

Not so the NEWS BOY’s humble Lot,

Are disregarded, and forgot,

Permit HIM then, his Labours past,

E’er Time has from Remembrance cast,

His own dull Head and labouring Brain,

And his tir’d Hand the Toil sustain,

Each Week he trotted thro’ the Street,

Tho’ Storms tempestuous on him beat,

Nor Winds, nor Rains, his Course could stay,

Intrepid he pursu’d his Way,

When all the Land in Silence sleeps,

With prying Eyes, and list’ning Ears,

He culls the best he sees and hears,

Whate’er remarkable he found,

He to his Patrons carried round,

But more Particulars to tell,

And to such Length his Verses swell,

He now, with kind Acceptance, prays,

And many happy New-Year’s Days,

And that not one of them may know,

Or generous Present to bestow,

To make the NEWS BOY glad.  

January 4, 1767. No. 107.

The TENDER HUSBAND: An ancient TALE, for our modern Ladies, paraphrastically translated from the Greek.

Why pines my dear?—To Celia his young Bride,

Who pensive sat.—Thus Limberham reply’d.

Alas! said she, such Visions break my Rest,

And,—If I would, (he says) I might—be well.

Take his Advice, said he, my poor, dear Wife,

The tender Husband, with a kind Embrace,

Something the Dame would say:—The ready Knight

Alas! she cries,—Ah me! Ah, cruel Cure!—

With Tears of Joy, fresh gushing from his Eyes,

Maids, Wives, and Widows, with like Whims possest,

May thus find certain Ease:—Probatum est.

January 26, 1767. No. 108.

The Comical Transformation
An Ancient Tale

———— nec lex est iustior ulla,
Quam necis Artifices arte perire sua:                   OVID.

In English thus: 

No Law can be more just or fit,
Than that the Biter should be bit.

In bloody Queen Mary’s land,

In a City of high degree,

And a very good Dyer was he.

This Dyer was married, forsooth,

And married in truth was he,

What he little desired to see;

Of monkey-fac’d Mons. L’Abbe!

He thought of a politic way,

To bring all the matter to light,

And by lying in ambush at night.

The horses were brought to the door,

Ev’ry sign of a journey appears;

Was bedew’d in her crocodile tears.

A thousand grimaces she made,

To shew forth her grief at his parting;

And regardless as old women’s f--ting.

The Dyer was now out of sight,

And prepar’d to discover the treason;

And I’m going to tell you the reason.

The wife was no sooner alone,

But she sent for her Father Confessor,

And he ran like a D—l to bless her.

The Damsel, with smiles on her face,

Met the Abbot, and gave him a kiss:

Had he known of the Jerquer in p—s.

We now may suppose them together,

Confessing and pressing each other;

Was the reverend Catholic Brother.

Some hours were past at this rate,

When the husband with pass-par-tout keys,

And caught napping the Hog in his peas.

Father Abbot, quoth he, without passion,

Is this your Church-way of Confession?

It is nevertheless a transgression.