He leaves my hand; see, to the west he's flown, To call my true-love from the faithless town, 66 With my sharp heel I three times mark the And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around." This pippin shall another trial make, See from the core two kernels brown I take; This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn; And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne. But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, A certain token that his love's unsound; While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last: Oh were his lips to mine but join'd so fast! "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around.” As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee, He wist not when the hempen string I drew; Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue. Together fast I tie the garters twain; And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: "Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure, Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!" "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." As I was wont, I trudged last market-day, To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. I made my market long before 'twas night, My purse grew heavy, and my basket light, Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, And in love powder all my money spent. Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." But hold our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his ears, O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears, SATURDAY; OR THE FLIGHTS. SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare; With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse, When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous strong! Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night; But thou sat'st toping till the morning light. Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout: (For custom says, "Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") By her example, Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering swains with stammering speech be spoke : "To you my lads, I'll sing my carol o'er, tend, Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend ;) Where swallows in the winter's season keep, And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; How nature does the puppy's eyelid close, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. For ❝ Buxom Joan" he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly tailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he raised his voice to tell What woeful wars in "Chevy-chace" befel, When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn, Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!" Ah, Witherington, more years thy life had crown'd, If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps, By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps. 64 All in the land of Essex" next he chants, How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so greenHappy for him if mares had never been! Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of "Taffey Welsh," and "Sawney Scot," "Lilly-bullero," and the "Irish Trot." Why should I tell of "Bateman," or of "Shore," Or "Wantley's Dragon" slain by valiant Moore; "The Bower of Rosamond," or "Robin Hood," And how the "grass now grows where Troy town stood?" His carols ceased: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. song. The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE. IN IMITATION OF THE "POLLIO" OF VIRGIL. YE sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite: chase; This hour destruction brings on all your race: And old October reddens every nose. His sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears; How, when youth strung his nerves and warm'd his veins, He rode, the mighty Nimrod of the plains. What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled. Now he the wonders of the fox repeats, When the hound tore the haunches of the witch! These stories, which descend from son to son, Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, This memorable day his eager speed Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed. The time shall come when his more solid sense With nod important shall the laws dispense; game. Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers, To sing his friendships and his midnight hours! Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer, Firm cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year: Brew'd, or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign, It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue; Hear then the dictates of prophetic song. 'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor, SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, Oh! where shall I my true-love find? William, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air, The noblest captain in the British fleet O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change, as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard: They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand. THE COURT OF DEATH. A FABLE. DEATH, on a solemn night of state, With hollow tone, All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand. Next Gout appears with limping pace, A haggard spectre from the crew Stone urged his over-growing force; Plague represents his rapid power, Who thinn'd a nation in an hour. All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand, Now expectation hush'd the band; When thus the monarch from the throne: He shares their mirth, their social joys, A BALLAD. FROM THE "WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT." All on a rock reclined. She cast a wistful look; Her head was crown'd with willows, Why didst thou trust the seas? But none that loves you so. How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain; Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep. All melancholy lying, Thus wail'd she for her dear; Repay'd each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied; Then like a lily drooping, She bow'd her head and died.* [ What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What-d'ye call-it," "Twas when the seas were roaring." I have been well informed that they all contributed.-CowPER to Unwin, Aug. 4, 1783.] SWEET are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose, Soft as the down of turtle dove, Gentle as air when Zephyr blows; Refreshing as descending rains To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains. True as the needle to the pole, Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll, Whose swelling tides obey the moon; The lamb the flowery thyme devours, Of verdant spring her notes renew; Nature must change her beauteous face, As winter to the spring gives place, Summer th' approach of autumn flies: No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring. Devouring time, with stealing pace, Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble towers, and gates of brass, In his rude march he levels low: But time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide. Death only, with his cruel dart, The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart To mingle with the bless'd above, Love, and his sister fair, the Soul, When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, When time and death shall be no more. MATTHEW GREEN. [Born, 1696. Died, 1737.] MATTHEW GREEN was educated among the Dissenters; but left them in disgust at their precision, probably without reverting to the mother church. All that we are told of him, is, that he had a post at the Custom House, which he discharged with great fidelity, and died at a lodging in Nag's-head court, Gracechurch-street, aged forty-one. His strong powers of mind had received little advantage from education, and were occasionally subject to depression from hypochondria; but his conversation is said to have abounded in wit and shrewdness. One day his friend Sylvanus Bevan complained to him that while he was bathing in the river he had been saluted by a waterman with the cry of "Quaker Quirl," and wondered how he should have been FROM "THE SPLEEN." CONTENTMENT, parent of delight, So much a stranger to our sight, Say, goddess, in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face; [* He was a clerk in the Custom House, on, it is thought, a small salary; but the writer of this note has hunted over official books in vain for a notice of his appointment, and of obituaries for the time of his death.] known to be a Quaker without his clothes. Green replied, "By your swimming against the stream." His poem, "The Spleen," was never published during his lifetime. Glover, his warm friend, presented it to the world after his death; and it is much to be regretted, did not prefix any account of its interesting author. It was originally a very short copy of verses, and was gradually and piecemeal increased. Pope speedily noticed its merit, Melmoth praised its strong originality in Fitzosborne's Letters, and Gray duly commended it in his correspondence with Walpole, when it appeared in Dodsley's collection. In that walk of poetry, where Fancy aspires no further than to go hand in hand with common sense, its merit is certainly unrivalled.† Thy gracious auspices impart, And for thy temple choose my heart. They whom thou deignest to inspire, Thy science learn, to bound desire; By happy alchemy of mind They turn to pleasure all they find; [There is a profusion of wit everywhere in Green; reading would have formed his judgment and harmonized his verse, for even his wood-notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music.--GRAY.] |