He soon replied, I do admire

Of woman kind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender

Will lend his horse to go.

Quoth Mistress Gilpin, That's well said;
And, for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish'd with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;
O'erjoy'd was he to find

That, though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,
Where they did all get in,

Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Were never folk so glad;

The stones did rattle underneath
As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seiz'd fast the flowing mane:
And up he got in haste to ride,

But soon came down again :

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,
His journey to begin,

When turning round his head, he saw
Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it griev'd him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind;
When Betty screaming came down stairs,
"The wine is left behind!"
Good lack quoth he-yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.

Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul!
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she lov'd,
And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true;
Then over all, that he might be
Equipp'd from top to toe,

His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat,
He manfully did throw.

Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,

At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,
Up flew the windows all:

And ev'ry soul cried out, Well done!
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he ;
His fame soon spread around-
He carries weight! he rides a race!
'Tis for a thousand pound.

And still as fast as he drew near

'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
And now as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen,

Which made his horse's flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight,
With leathern girdle brac'd;
For all might see the bottles' necks
Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
And till he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the wash about

On both sides of the way,

Just like unto a trundling mop,

Or a wild-goose at play.

At Edmonton his loving wife
From balcony espied

Her tender husband, wond'ring much
To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house-
They all at once did cry :

The dinner waits, and we are tir'd:
Said Gilpin-So am I.

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclin'd to tarry there;
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly-which brings me to
The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend's the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amaz'd to see

His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him:

What news? what news? your tidings tell,
Tell me you must and shall-

Say why bare-headed you are come,
Or why you come at all!

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And lov'd a timely joke;

And thus unto the calender

In merry guise he spoke :

I came because your horse would come,
And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road.

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Return'd him not a single word,
But to the house went in.

When straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flow'd behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, aud in his turn
Thus show'd his ready wit:
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
But let me scrape the dirt away

That hangs upon your face;
And stop and cat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.

Said John, It is my wedding day;

And all the world would stare,

If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said,
I am in haste to dine:

'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;
For while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear:
Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar ;
And gallop'd off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why? they were too big.
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half a crown :

And thus unto the youth she said
That drove them to the Bell,
This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear,
They rais'd the hue and cry:

Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town,
Nor stopp'd till where he first got up
He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king,

And Gilpin, long live he,
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

§ 174. An Evening Contemplation in a College, in Imitation of Gray's Elegy in a Country Church-yard. DUNCOMBE.

THE Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates; With jarring sounds the porter turns the key; Then in his dreary mansion slumb'ring waits, And slowly, sternly, quits it though for me. Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, And through the cloisters peace and silence reign;

Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune, Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain; Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room,

Where sleeps a student in profound repose, Oppress'd with ale, wide echoes thro' the gloom The droning music of his vocal nose.

Within those walls, where through the glimmering shade

Appear the pamphlets in a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow bed till morning laid,

The peaceful fellows of the college sleep. The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray'rs, The noisy servants rattling o'er their head, The calls of business, and domestic cares, Ne'er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed.

No chattering females crowd their social fire, No dread have they of discord and of strife; Unknown the names of husband and of sire, Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life.

Oft have they bask'd beneath the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight,

How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate!

O! let not temperance, too disdainful, hear How long their feasts, how long their dinners last:

Nor let the fair, with a contemptuous sneer,

On these unmarried men reflections cast! The splendid fortune and the beauteous face (Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan)

Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace; These sons of science shine in black alone.

Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault,

If these no feats of gaiety display, Where through proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing

vault

Melodious Frasi trills her quavering lay.
Say, is the sword well suited to the band?

Does broider'd coat agree with sable gown? Can Mechlin laces shade a churchman's hand? Or learning's votaries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tottering walls reside

Some who were once the darling of the fair, Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Control the manager, and awe the player.

Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife,

Their wishes yet have never learn'd to stray; Content and happy in a single life,

They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. E'en now their books from cobwebs to protect,

Enclos'd by doors of glass in Doric style, On polish'd pillars rais'd with bronzes deck'd,

They claim the passing tribute of a smile.

Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound, Mis-spelt by blundering binders' want of And many a catalogue is strew'd around, [care, To tell the admiring guest what books are there.

For who, to thoughtless ignorance a prey,

Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book? Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,

And on those cases casts a lingering look? Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes;

Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require; For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries,

And Sense and Nature Grandison desire. For thee, who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, with prying search, in future years, Some antiquarian should inquire thy fate;

I know,' cries Death,

that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend at least: I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!' Hold,' says the farmer, not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' And no great wonder,' Death replies ; However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.' Perhaps,' says Dobson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.'

This is a shocking story, faith;

Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death: Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant you hear all the news.'

Sir Traffic's name, so well applied, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost def'rence to his wife, Confess'd her arguments had reason; And by th' approaching summer season Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his country box.

Some three or four miles out of town (An hour's ride will bring you down) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road; And so convenient does it lay, The stages pass it every day; And then so snug, so mighty pretty, To have a house so near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're set down at the very door.

Well then, suppose them fix'd at last,

LLOYD.

$176. The Cit's Country Box. Vos sapere, et solos aio bene vivere, quorum Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. HOR.

THE wealthy cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare:
While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,

How all the country seems to smile!'
And as they slowly jog together,

The cit commends the road and weather:
While Madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for ev'ry house she sees;
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration:

What signifies the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear:
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break apace;
And nothing can health repair,
But exercise and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-row:
He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true;
But not so warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to sneer-
One would not be outdone, my dear!'

your

Hugging themselves in ease and clover,
With all the fuss of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred,
And wanton in my lady's head.

'Well! to be sure, it must be own'd,
It is a charming spot of ground:
So sweet a distance for a ride,
And all about so countrified;
'Twould come but to a trifling price,
To make it quite a paradise!
I cannot bear those nasty rails,
Those ugly, broken, mouldy pales:
Suppose, my dear, instead of these,
We build a railing all Chinese ;
Although one hates to be expos'd,
'Tis dismal to be thus enclos'd;
One hardly any object sees-
I wish you'd fell these odious trees,
Objects continually passing by,
Were something to amuse the eye;
But to be pent within the walls,
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While every traveller in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze;
And, pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry,That's Sir Thrifty's country-seat!"
No doubt her arguments prevail,
For Madam's TASTE can never fail.
Blest age! when all men may procure
The title of a connoisseur;
When noble and ignoble herd
Are govern'd by a single word;
Though, like the royal German dames,
It bears an hundred Christian names,
As Genius, Fancy, Judgement, Gout,
Whim, Caprice, Je ne scais quoi, Virtù ;
Which appellations all describe
TASTE, and the modern tasteful tribe.

Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners, With Chinese artists and designers, Produce their schemes of alteration, To work this wondrous reformation.