The gentlemen, who assisted Concanen in this collection, were Dean Swift, Mr. Parnel, Dr. Delany, Mr. Brown, Mr. Ward, and Mr. Stirling.  In this collection there is a poem by Mr. Concanen, called A Match at Football, in three Cantos; written, ’tis said, in imitation of The Rape of the Lock.  This performance is far from being despicable; the verification is generally smooth; the design is not ill conceived, and the characters not unnatural.  It perhaps would be read with more applause, if The Rape of the Lock did not occur to the mind, and, by forcing a comparison, destroy all the satisfaction in perusing it; as the disproportion is so very considerable.  We shall quote a few lines from the beginning of the third canto, by which it will appear that Concanen was not a bad rhimer.

  In days of yore a lovely country maid
  Rang’d o’er these lands, and thro’ these forests stray’d;
  Modest her pleasures, matchless was her frame,
  Peerless her face, and Sally was her name. 
  By no frail vows her young desires were bound,
  No shepherd yet the way to please her found. 
  Thoughtless of love the beauteous nymph appear’d,
  Nor hop’d its transports, nor its torments fear’d. 
  But careful fed her flocks, and grac’d the plain,
  She lack’d no pleasure, and she felt no pain. 
  She view’d our motions when we toss’d the ball,
  And smil’d to see us take, or ward, a fall;
  ’Till once our leader chanc’d the nymph to spy,
  And drank in poison from her lovely eye. 
  Now pensive grown, he shunn’d the long-lov’d plains,
  His darling pleasures, and his favour’d swains,
  Sigh’d in her absence, sigh’d when she was near,
  Now big with hope, and now dismay’d with fear;
  At length with falt’ring tongue he press’d the dame,
  For some returns to his unpity’d flame;
  But she disdain’d his suit, despis’d his care,
  His form unhandsome, and his bristled hair;
  Forward she sprung, and with an eager pace
  The god pursu’d, nor fainted in the race;
  Swift as the frighted hind the virgin flies,
  When the woods ecchoe to the hunters cries: 
  Swift as the fleetest hound her flight she trac’d,
  When o’er the lawns the frighted hind is chac’d;
  The winds which sported with her flowing vest
  Display’d new charms, and heightened all the rest: 
  Those charms display’d, increas’d the gods desire,
  What cool’d her bosom, set his breast on fire: 
  With equal speed, for diff’rent ends they move,
  Fear lent the virgin wings, the shepherd love: 
  Panting at length, thus in her fright she pray’d,
  Be quick ye pow’rs, and save a wretched maid.
  [Protect] my honour, shelter me from shame,
  [Beauty] and life with pleasure I disclaim.

[Transcriber’s note:  print unclear for words in square brackets, therefore words are assumed.]