Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls th' Illyrian coast; But soon the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce ; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, wing'd with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly Drop freedom, health, and gay desires : While the bright Seine, t'exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires. Enamour'd of the Seine, celestial fair, (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, Fool! Time no change of motion knows; To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: The past is all by death possest; And frugal fate that guards the rest, O Gower! through all the destined space, What breath the Powers allot to me Shall sing the virtues of thy race, United and complete in thee. O flower of ancient English faith! In which confirm'd thy father shone : Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd, Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace; EDWARD (familiarly called Ned) WARD was a low-born uneducated man, who followed the trade of a publican. He is said, however, to have attracted many eminent persons to his house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a general acquaintance among authors, and to have been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. In those times the tavern was a less discreditable haunt than at present, and his literary acquaintance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended him very much by saying, in his account of the poets, that he kept a publichouse in the city. He publicly contradicted the assertion as a falsehood, stating that his house was not in the city, but in Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the industry, or cacoethes, of this facetious publican, who wrote his very will in verse. His favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a complete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally gross; but his descriptions are still curious and full of life, and are worth preserving, as delineations of the manners of the times. SONG. O GIVE me, kind Bacchus, thou god of the vine, That ne'er forsook tavern for porterly ale-house. Let a fleet from Virginia, well laden with weed, And a cargo of pipes, that we nothing may need, Attend at our stern to supply us with guns, And to weigh us our funk, not by pounds, but by tuns. When thus fitted out we would sail cross the line, Look cheerfully round us and comfort our eyes That, living or dead, both my body and spirit Should float round the globe in an ocean of claret, The truest of friends and the best of all juices, Worth both the rich metals that India produces: For all men we find from the young to the old, Will exchange for the bottle their silver and gold, Except rich fanatics-a pox on their pictures ! That make themselves slaves to their prayers and their lectures; And think that on earth there is nothing divine, But a canting old fool and a bag full of coin. What though the dull saint make his standard and sterling His refuge, his glory, his god, and his darling; The mortal that drinks is the only brave fellow, Though never so poor he's a king when he's mellow; Grows richer than Croesus with whimsical thinking, And never knows care whilst he follows his drinking. JOHN GAY. [Born, 1688. Died, 1732.] GAY's Pastorals are said to have taken with the public not as satires on those of Ambrose Philips, which they were meant to be, but as natural and just imitations of real life and of rural manners. It speaks little, however, for the sagacity of the poet's town readers, if they enjoyed those caricatures in earnest, or imagined any truth of English manners in Cuddy and Cloddipole contending with Amabæan verses for the prize or song, or in Bowzybeus rehearsing the laws of nature. If the allusion to Philips was overlooked, they could only be relished as travesties of Virgil, for Bowzybeus himself would not be laughable unless we recollected Silenus*. Gay's Trivia seems to have been built upon the hint of Swift's Description of a City Shower†. It exhibits a picture of the familiar customs of the metropolis that will continue to become more amusing as the customs grow obsolete. As a fabulist he has been sometimes hypercritically blamed for presenting us with allegorical impersonations. The mere naked apologue of Æsop is too simple to interest the human mind, when its fancy and understanding are past the state of childhood or barbarism. La Fontaine dresses the stories which he took from Æsop and others with such profusion of wit and naïveté, that his manner conceals the insipidity of the matter. "La sauce vaut mieux que le poisson." Gay, though not equal to La Fontaine, is at least free from his occasional prolixity; and in one instance, (the Court of Death) ventures into allegory with considerable power. Without being an absolute simpleton, like La Fontaine, he possessed a bonhomie of character which forms an agreeable trait of resemblance between the fabulists. MONDAY; OR THE SQUABBLE. LORBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODdipole. L. Clout. THY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake, No thrustles shrill the bramble bush forsake, [* That in these pastorals Gay has hit, undesignedly perhaps, the true spirit of pastoral poetry, was the opinion of Goldsmith: "In fact," he adds, "he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever." Yet he will not defend, he says, the antiquated expressions.] [ Gay acknowledges in the prefatory Advertisement that he owes several hints of it to Dr. Swift.] [Gay is now best known as the author of The Beggars' Opera, which, in spite of its passed political tendency, still keeps, by its music chiefly, its hold upon the stage; and as the author of Black Eyed Susan, which when sung, as it often is, with feeling, brings to remembrance or acquaint No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes, No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ; ance a once familiar name. The multitude know nothing of Trivia; to a Londoner even, it is a dead-letter; and few of the many have read or even heard of The Shepherd s Week. The stage and the convivial club have essentially assisted in preserving his fame. The works of Gay are on our shelves, but not in our pockets-in our remembrance, but not in our memories. His Fables are as good as a series of such pieces will in all possibility ever be. No one has envied him their production; but many would like to have the fame of having | written The Shepherd's Week, Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad that begins : "Twas when the seas were roaring." Had he given his time to satire he had excelled, for his lines on Blackmore are in the extreme of bitterness ] L. Clout. Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by Than does their fawns, or cows, the new-fallen calf: Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal? Cuddy. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. L. Clout. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lined with Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer. [hair, This pouch that's tied with tape of reddest hue, I'llwager that the prize shall be my due. [slouch! Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch. L. Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens sweet, Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet: But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair, Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare. Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd. Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain, The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftest feats around; But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May. And holidays, if haply she were gone, L. Clout. As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood, Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood, I slyly ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss; Cuddy. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer; Cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks L. Clout. As once I play'd at blindman's buff, About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt. [it hapt I miss'd the swains, and seized on Blouzelind. True speaks that ancient proverb, "Love is blind.” Cuddy. As at hot cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye. Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung ; Cuddy. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, L. Clout. This riddle, Cuddy if thou canst exThis wily riddle puzzles every swain. [plain, "What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the same?" Cuddy. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight. [right, "What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves !" Cloddipole. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains! An oaken staff each merits for his pains. THURSDAY; OR THE SPELL. HOBNELIA. HOBNELIA, seated in a dreary vale, In pensive mood rehearsed her piteous tale; And turn me thrice around, around, around." Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth, I swear, Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair, As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue, As if upon his comely pâte it grew. "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around." Slow crawl'd the snail, and, if a right can spell, "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around.” As peasecods once I pluck'd, I chanced to see, One that was closely fill'd with three times three, Which when I cropp'd I safely home convey'd, And o'er the door the spell in secret laid; My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new, While from the spindle I the fleeces drew; The latch moved up, when, who should first come But, in his proper person-Lubberkin. [in I broke my yarn, surprised the sight to see; And turn me thrice around, around, around." ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." ground, And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around." I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee. A A He wist not when the hempen string I drew. And turn me thrice around, around, around." And turn me thrice around, around, around." SATURDAY; OR THE FLIGHTS. BOWZYBEUS. SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ; While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright, 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 bespoke : "To you my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er, Of nature's laws his carols first begun, Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, The various fairings of the country-maid. Long silken laces hang upon the twine, And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; How the tight lass, knives, combs, and scissars spies, And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told, Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. The lads and lasses trudge the street along, And all the fair is crowded in his song. The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; Jack Pudding, in his party-colour'd jacket, Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. |