AN ELEGY
On the MODERN HEROE,
REDMON o HANLAN,
Surnamed The TORY.
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COme Gentle Muse, assist my pen
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To praise the worthiest of men,
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With whom, your ancient Heroes put
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In ballance, weigh not shell of Nut.
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As for great Hanlans reputation,
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We shall evince by demonstration.
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Of them, let Jason first be namd,
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For clean conveyance so much famd.
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For whose each lock of Golden wooll,
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Bold Redmon has a thousand stole.
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Nor did their owners scape so cheap,
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He often took both Fleece, and Sheep.
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Nay Mercury himself, though made
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A God, for his great skill ith trade;
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Compard, would look like Picaroon
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To First-Rate Ship, or Star to Moon.
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Next Hercules, about whose Club
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Strange tales you tell, like those of Tub:
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Would the unequal combat shun,
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Ore-matchd by his dead doing Gun.
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For if with Blunderbuss compard,
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Like all that met it, twoud have feard.
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The force of this Achilles hide
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Well tand as twas, woud ner abide.
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Shoud lusty Blunder once assault him,
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In spight of Fate it would have mauld him.
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Hector; that of the Greeks made spoyl,
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As you and Homer keep a coyl;
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Nere bolder set upon his foes
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Than he, who told them to their nose,
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You must deliver up your Purse,
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Or by my Shoul youl fare the worse.
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Which said, if enemy seemd stout,
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Soon half a dozen balls flew out,
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And strait one Army fell to rout.
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Which if our party no worse fard
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Than losing Prize, and being scard:
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For th famous Warrior was compleat
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In all that makes a General great,
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Knew when to fight, when to retreat.
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In which no Mountains, Rocks, or Woods,
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Coud stop his course, nor Bogs, nor Floods;
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As oft he manifested, when
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Pursud by Floyd, and his six men.
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Shewing a pair of heels so light,
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That some mistook it for plain flight.
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But they are much mistane, alass!
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And chiefly in the Millers case:
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For though his men and he retird
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With speed, after the Mill was fird;
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Yet none must think the Count woud run
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From one old Miller and his Son.
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Attribute then the haste was made
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Only to fear of Ambuscade.
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But death, although he ran so fast,
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Has got the heels of him at last.
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For which, the tears are numberless
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That have been shed, as you may guess.
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But to his friends one comforts left,
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Although he be of life bereft,
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He shant partake the common fate;
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For neither Redmons limbs nor pate
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Shall under sordid rubbish lye
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Forgot, but shall be placd on high,
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Monuments of his Chivalry.
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Where, if his shining Beard, and Hair,
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Should like some new made Star appear,
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(For Stars, in times past, Heroes were)
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To all that dare his Rivals be,
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They will portend black destiny.
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