One Thousand Eight Hundred;
OR, I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. BEING A
CHOICE COLLECTION
OF FAVOURITE SONGS, ON SERIOUS, MORAL, AND LIVELY SUBJECTS.
Written and carefully revised
BY GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY.
When Winter nights grow dull and long,
Propose the dance, or sing your song;
Or join concordant in some glee;
For Life should never vapid be.
TEWKESBURY: PRINTED BY W. DYDE; AND SOLD BY WEST AND HUGHES, PATERNOSTER-ROW; C. CHAPPLE, PALL-MALL; AND S. REED, STRAND, LONDON. 1800.
To Mr. INCLEDON.
SIR,
FROM the very eminent line you are ranked in as a vocal performer, and the great pleasure I have often received when I have heard you sing some of the following Songs, I thought there would be no impropriety, trusting at the same time that you would not take it amiss, were I to inscribe the following little work to you. I have been the more particularly urged to publish my songs in this manner, from hearing of the frequent applications which have been made for them to almost every bookseller in town, who have not had it in their power until now, to gratify their different customers. There are more people capable of reading than singing a song, therefore, those that have not studied music sufficiently, may have the opportunity of looking over the words in the closet; many of them have been set by some of the most able composers, and many also by the most moderate ones; which have often been the cause of putting the reader out of humour with the words, from the musician's misconception of the subject, or his deficiency in respect to effect and harmony. Many an author has had the mortification of seeing his words martyred by the composer of the music, who has evidently shewn, by his emphasis (if I may be allowed that phrase) being wrongly placed, that although he might be full master of his science, so far as to know a crotchet from a minim, yet if you had set him to read, perhaps, he did not know a substantive from a verb, and a total stranger altogether of antithesis or inflection; in such case, good words are often prostituted through ignorance, which is as mortifying as if any body were to put a valuable piece of broad cloth into the hands of an unskilful Taylor, who having no taste, in respect to fashion or shape, often produces a coat not only unfit to be worn, but unfit to be seen also, from which reason, it has disgusted, and been thrown upon the shelf to rot in oblivion. And on the other hand, many a song which has been meerly
measure,
without the least pretention to the name of Poetry, divested at the same time of instructive matter as well as of figure or incident, has become a favourite ditty with the Public, from the ingenuity of the composer of the music, who may have been lucky enough to give it a good tune.
In the above instance we are told the Italian composers do often excel; and the late ingenious Bonnel Thornton, joint writer of the Connoisieur, has, in some part of his works, given us a translation of one of their popular airs, which we also find to be strictly
measure,
and runs thus:
" Where, which, and wherefore,
" There, this, and therefore!!!"
This is a kind of fashionable
scaffolding
for the music, which the composer
builds
upon, and finishes his part by
line
and
rule,
like a good mason or bricklayer, who never considers, or looks into the imperfection of the architect, but is perfectly contented that he has finished
his
part of the business well, let the superstructure be ever so contemptible; but you are a better judge of music than I am, and if this metaphor should not hold good, you will be kind enough to pardon,
Sir,
Your most obedient Servant, GEO. S. CAREY.
CONTENTS.
I WISH you an Happy New Year PAGE 5
The Loyal Tar 6
The Mason's Allegory 7
The Soldier's Resolution 7
The Disconsolate Sailor 8
The Disconsolate Sailor's Return 9
Mary of the Tyne 9
The Maid of the Rock 10
The Affectionate Soldier 11
Sequel to Poll of Plymouth 12
The Shipwrecked Boy 12
The Shipwrecked Boy at Home 13
The Furloughed Soldier 14
On Yonder Stile 15
Allen Brooke of Windermere 15
Love without Return 16
The Valetudinarian 17
The Drooping Rose 18
The Sailor's Allegory 18
Strangers at Home 19
Hold your Jaw 20
A monstrous good Song 21
He saw I Lov'd 23
The Chichester Pack 24
Willy of the Woodland Side 24
William of Allerton Green 25
Give the Friendless Charity 26
The Gallant Lieutenant 27
Eleanor of Exeter 28
Every Man his Mode PAGE 29
Bacchus's Advice; or, the Good Evening 30
Ye Blushing Rays 31
The Negro's Soliloquy 31
My Little Blithsome Sparrow 32
The Pirates 33
Cupid's Attributes 34
A Catch 34
The Pretty Maid of Chelmsford 35
Pleasure's in the Vale 36
The Post Boy 36
Celia 37
The Maiden's Resolution 38
Peg of the Moor 39
The Golden Ear-Ring; or, Autumnal Leaf 40
The Good Merry Fellows all under the Holly 40
Edward and Editha 41
The Loaves and the Fishes 42
Spring-Water Cresses 44
Pity Kindled into Love 44
What is Liberty? 46
Clody and Clara; or, Love's Controversy 47
My Own Fire-Side 48
An Old Friend with a New Face 49
The Responsive Dove 50
I thought it was Queer 50
Love and Time 51
The Royal Cottager 52
Poll of Prestbury 53
The Rationals 54
A CHOICE
COLLECTION
OF FAVOURITE SONGS.
I WISH YOU AN HAPPY NEW YEAR.
JOHN ENGLISH, who often would speak without thought,
Not having the judgment to think as he ought,
From custom, let danger be ever so near,
Wou'd annually wish you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Should our coast be in danger, and people afraid,
Lest the French, or the Dutch, should our country invade;
Give John but his Pipe, and his good Christmas cheer,
He'll greet all his friends WITH AN HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Some people call Johnny a national hack,
He bears such a national load on his back,
Should trade become dull, and should dockets appear,
Yet Johnny shall wish you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Should Monopoly threaten, or Famine surround,
And nothing about us but misery found,
When at every dwelling long faces appear,
Kind Johnny shall wish you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Without knowing the fate of the following day,
Or what heavy demands without money to pay,
Tho' the weather be bad, or provisions be dear,
Yet Johnny shall wish you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
'Tis a wish that our ancestors us'd to bestow,
In the good times of old we all very well know,
But those times are over, all wise people fear,
Who laugh when you talk of A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
THE LOYAL TAR.
'SDEATH what a fuss land-lubbers make
About their rights and laws,
As if in doubt what part to take,
And jar, as 'twere, for straws;—
If they wou'd do the thing that's right,
Or cease prevarication,
Like loyal tars they wou'd unite,
To save this envy'd nation.
Much talking argues little good,
For many do remark,
That our has not the truest blood,
Which is too apt to bark.
True courage ne'er delights in noise;
But when there is occasion,
The loyal tar each nerve employs
To save his envy'd nation.
Let Frenchmen say whate'er they will,
And pass such mad decrees,
That each a brother's blood shall spill,
Or father's if they please;
We are not quite so savage grown,
To ape so strange a fashion,
Each loyal tar will guard the crown,
His king, his friend, and nation!
THE MASON'S ALLEGORY.
THE trade of a Mason's a good moral school,
Where the
measures
of life are establish'd by
rule,
When affairs go awry let your judgment incline,
To make matters
even
by drawing the
line.
Shou'd your paths, being crooked, bewilder the mind,
Or, encircl'd by care, no alternative find,
Ne'er let your guide, Reason, give way to despair,
Old Time, with exertion, your troubles may
square.
Shou'd you meet with a brother in
craft
too profound,
Make use of your
plummet,
his subtilty
sound,
And if you no
bottom
should find in his heart,
When his hand he presents you, then bid him depart.
Let your converse be
level,
your life not too gay,
But just within compass the moderate way;
When you're crippl'd by age, infirm and oppress'd,
Let Faith lend a
pillar
on which you may rest.
THE SOLDIER'S RESOLUTION.
SEE the night's ta'en its leave, the streamers of day,
Begin from the eastward to dart,
The ravilia beats, and I'm summon'd away,
'Tis hard my dear Betsey to part,
It is not the foe in the field that I dread,
Nor the point of the glittering steel,
It is not the whistling bullet of lead,
'Tis parting with thee that I feel.
I must not indulge in the thought of my dear,
The bustle of war is around,
The bellowing trumpet blows loud in the ear,
My spirits start up at the sound.
I'll fight for my king as a soldier should fight,
Yet were I to 'scape with my life,
When the wars are all o'er, 'twou'd be my delight,
To make my dear Betsey my wife.
THE DISCONSOLATE SAILOR.
WHEN my money was gone that I gain'd in the wars,
And the world 'gan to frown at my fate,
What matter'd my zeal or my honoured scars
When indifference stood at each gate.
The face that would smile when my purse was well lin'd,
Shew'd a different aspect to me,
And when I could nought but ingratitude find,
I hi'd once again to the sea.
I thought it unwise to repine at my lot,
To bear with cold looks on the shore,
So I pack'd up the trifling remnants I'd got,
And a trifle, alas! was my store.
A handkerchief held all the treasure I had,
Which over my shoulder I threw,
Away then I trudg'd, with a heart rather sad,
To join with some jolly ship's crew.
The sea was less troubl'd, by far, than my mind,
For when the wide main I survey'd,
I could not help thinking the world was unkind,
And fortune a slipp'ry jade.
And I vow'd, if once more I could take her in tow,
I'd let the ungrateful ones see,
That the turbulent winds, and the billows could shew
More kindness than they did to me.
THE DISCONSOLATE SAILOR'S RETURN.
ONCE more I return'd to my own native shore,
Which I left so dejected, so heartless and poor,
Each face look'd indignant and shy;
I sought for relief on the perilous main,
And, Fortune, she cheer'd my poor heart once again,
While I brav'd the caprice of the sky.
Tho' death seem'd impatiently waiting around,
With sharp-pointed lightning and thunder profound,
Or roar'd in the turbulent wind,
When a calm has return'd, I've said to each mate,
Tho' the heavens have frown'd, there's nothing I hate.
So much as the frowns of mankind.
I had not forgot how my heart was oppress'd,
And slighted by those, whom I'd often caress'd,
And parted my penny so free;
But if ever dame Fortune shou'd leave me again.
No more shall ingratitude give me a pain,
I'll seek for resource on the sea.
MARY OF THE TYNE.
WHAT pleasure oft' 'tis to reveal,
The pain or pleasure that we feel;
'Tis bliss, while either we impart
Unto a sympathetic heart;—
Just like that sweet heart of thine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne.
I lose, when near thee, all my care,
When from thee, I am all despair;
My bosom heaves with anxious pain,
Until I meet with thee again;
What are the adverse pangs of mine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Say is it from thy beauteous face,
Or is it from thy natural grace,
Or is it thy angelic mind,
Or is it ev'ry one combin'd,
Making one sweet form divine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Shou'd it be love, thou'lt sure forgive,
That is the food on which I live;
But if thou shou'dst that bliss deny,
Then must thy faithful lover die;
Or linger out his life and pine,
For lovely Mary of the Tyne.
THE MAID OF THE ROCK.
I SAT out one eve, with intention to roam,
To the Rock, where the surges wantonly play,
When the owl had stol'n out from his secret home,
And bright-vested Hesperus clos'd in the day.
The moon was at full, and with dignity rose,
And tissu'd with silver the green-mantl'd seas,
The God of the ocean was gone to repose,
And Aeolus fann'd with a whispering breeze.
On reaching the cave where old legends report,
And many a sorrowful tale has been sung,
Where blood-hunting robbers have oft held their court,
On each side was some vestige of chivalry hung;
My eyes were alarm'd on beholding a maid,
Who, near to the cavern, sat silent in grief,
Her head on her hand all in sorrow was laid,
A hard rocky pillow was all her relief.
She started with fear, and she fain would have fled,
I begg'd her to stay and her sorrows relate,
Then told her, from me, she had nothing to dread,
That I was sent there by the order of fate,—
You came by the order of one, she reply'd,
Who has done all she can to distract my poor mind,
O'er-whelm'd in the deep, my dear William, my pride,
Then sunk, and she gave her last breath to the wind!
THE AFFECTIONATE SOLDIER.
'TWAS in the ev'ning of a wint'ry day,
When safe returning from a long campaign,
Allen o'er-toil'd and weary with the way,
Came home to see his Sally once again.
His batter'd arms he carelessly threw down,
And view'd his Sally with enraptur'd eyes,
But she receiv'd him with a modest frown,
She knew not Allen in his rough disguise.
His hair was knotted, and his beard unshorn,
His tatter'd 'coutrements about him hung;
A tear of pleasure did each cheek adorn,
And blessings fell in torrents from his tongue.
Am I so alter'd by this cruel trade,
That you your faithful Allen have forgot?
Or is your heart unto another stray'd?
Ah!—why escap'd I from the murd'ring shot?
When thus he spake, her wonted colour fled,
She ran and sunk upon her Allen's breast,
All pale, awhile, she look'd like one that's dead,
He kiss'd, she breath'd, and all her love confess'd.
Yes, my delight—tho' alter'd as thou art,
Reduc'd by honest courage to this state,
Thou art the golden treasure of my heart,
My long-lost husband and my wish'd-for mate!
SEQUEL TO POLL OF PLYMOUTH.
WHEN Edward first heard Poll of Plymouth was dead,
The functions of life made a pause,
His piteous eyes stood aghast in his head,
His ship-mates enquir'd the cause;
Reviving awhile, he address'd them around,
His hand closely press'd on his heart,
Within this sad letter at once I have found,
The spectre of death and his dart.
It tells that my dear Poll of Plymouth is dead,
My comfort, my joy, and my wife,
When I was torn from her, she flew to her bed,
And sighing, resign'd her dear life.
He fancy'd he saw his dear Poll in the clouds;
Ah, stay for poor Edward he cries,
Then, swift as his fancy, he ran up the shrouds,
And eagerness flash'd in his eyes.
He call'd for all hands, and he gave a loud shriek,
And now all distracted he raves;
Said, do you not see that my heart's sprung a leak,
Then threw himself into the waves.
All hands were employ'd to prevent his sad fate,
And the long-boat was put out in vain,
That drags him aboard, but, alas, 'twas too late,
For he never once breathed again!
THE SHIPWRECKED BOY.
'TWAS near a rock, within a bay,
Where many a shatter'd vessel rides,
An ample cottage shelter'd lay,
Which overlook'd the ebbing tides;
Its calm inhabitants would view
The ocean struggling with the sky,
When e'er the northern tempests blew,
Or when each wave ran mountains high.
Once at the closing of a day,
When angry Boreas in his rage,
Had clear'd the dark'ning clouds away,
Which caus'd a thund'ring war to wage;
A ship-wreck'd sea-boy, pale and spent
With buffeting the threat'ning waves,
Straight to the peaceful cottage went,
And, bending low, for succour craves.
He told his tale with feeble voice,
For he'd a heart that could not feign;
The list'ning hearers all rejoice,
That he was safe on land again.
The parents and the children strove,
Who now should first his wants supply,
While pity caus'd each heart to move,
And sympathy fill'd ev'ry eye.
The can was fill'd, the fire was made,
To cheer and dry their drenched guest,
For each brought something to his aid,
And anxiously the boy caress'd;
At length reviv'd, express'd his mind,
And shew'd his gratitude so plain,
Forgot the thunder and the wind,
Resolv'd to try the sea again.
THE SHIPWRECKED BOY AT HOME.
THE goddess of war threw her spear on the ground,
And Peace wav'd her olive-branch gracefully round,
A stillness now reign'd o'er the wide-spreading main,
The Syrens began a melodious strain;
The ship-wrecked sea-boy his troubles forgot,
The yawn of the waves and the whistling shot,
His dear native home strongly press'd on his mind,
His parents and sisters so loving and kind.
He hurry'd fast on with his heart all elate,
To embrace them around, and his story relate,
His hard-earned wages he long'd to divide,
'Mongst those that he lov'd near his own fire-side;
But when he arriv'd, say what pen can express
The genial delight, the joy in excess;
So welcome at home was this brave little guest,
You'd have thought that their welcoming ne'er would have ceas'd.
He hail'd 'em around, and he smiled with glee,
Cry'd, hold out your hands, take this present from me;
A fine silken 'kerchief, each neck to enfold,
But gave to his parents a purse full of gold;
The fidler was sent for that liv'd on the green,
Such dancing and romping sure never was seen;
They gambol'd, 'till Phoebus peep'd over the shed,
Then kissing, and blessing, went peaceful to bed.
THE FURLOUGHED SOLDIER.
AS I've plodded my way to some far country town,
Full many a wearisome day,
My purse has contain'd but a scanty half-crown,
And that has soon melted away.
Oft weary and sad, in some wint'ry road,
With rain I've been wet to the skin,
Of my knap-sack grown tir'd, I've sought for abode,
At some friendly good ale-house or inn.
I've hop'd that good fortune on turning her wheel
Wou'd cast me perchance on the place,
Where the wound in my bosom would instantly heal,
At the sight of my Sally's dear face.
She grieves; for she knows how I'm destin'd to roam,
On the strength of my furlough to rest,
And then she oft wishes her Allen at home,
To bury his cares in her breast.
ON YONDER STILE.
A DUET.
ON yonder stile, let's sit awhile,
To hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up soon,
And silver o'er the vale;
Ah, did you know the pangs I feel,
I can no longer now conceal,
The tender tale I must reveal,
On yonder stile let's sit awhile
To hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up soon,
And silver o'er the vale.
The golden sun his race has run,
The linnet seeks her nest,
The shepherd's care, all folded are,
While he plods home to rest;
Then let us Phoebe [William] onward move
Unto the streamlet near the grove,
And while I whisper o'er my love,
On yonder stile let's sit awhile,
And hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up soon,
And silver o'er the vale.
ALLEN BROOKE OF WINDERMERE.
SAY have you in the village seen,
A lovely youth of pensive mein,
If such a one hath passed by,
With melancholy in his eye,
Where is he gone, ah, tell me where?
'Tis Allen Brooke of Windermere.
Last night he sighing took his leave,
Which caus'd me all the night to grieve,
And many maids I know there be,
Who try to wean my love from me;
But heaven knows my heart's sincere
To Allen Brooke of Windermere.
My throbbing breast is full of woe,
To think that he should serve me so,
But if my love should anger'd be,
And try to hide himself from me,
Then death shall bear me on a bier,
To Allen Brooke of Windermere!
LOVE WITHOUT RETURN.
WHERE are those hours fled
That us'd to yield delight,
My days with pleasure sped,
And sweet repose at night;
Within the shaded cot,
Which stands on yonder lea,
It was, alas, my lot
My Mary first to see.
Ah, were her love like mine,
How happy had I been,
Crown'd with such bliss divine,
While Mary reign'd my queen;
But she increas'd my woe,
While at her feet I sigh'd,
Disdain sat on her brow,
Which all my love defy'd.
If beauty makes her vain,
My Mary sure is wrong,
For, ah, who can retain,
Or boast of beauty long?
My love is so sincere,
Should time her charms disguise,
I'd love my Mary, dear,
'Till death enclos'd my eyes.
THE VALETUDINARIAN.
YE that groan beneath the weight
Of dissipation, pride, or state,
Condemn'd to walk through life's parade,
At rout, or drum, or masquerade,
Ye that fain would pleasure find,
Led by Fortune, ever blind,
Come and sit along with me,
Come and taste tranquility.
Or if chac'd by sallow care,
Would you shun the hag Despair?
Would you chearful health restore,
When advice can do no more?
Seek the fresh reviving breeze,
Or the fanning of the trees,
Come and sit along with me,
Come and taste tranquility.
Ye that feel the pangs of love,
Come and murmer with the dove;
Shun the false ungrateful maid;
Seek the sweet sequester'd shade;
Let her ne'er behold thy grief,
Time, ere long, will bring relief;
Come and sit along with me,
Come and taste tranquility.
Ye that languish to regain
A breaking heart, or racking brain;
Driv'n by fortune or by fate
To a wild and frantic state;
Or mopeing wander like a loon,
Dreading oft the wayward moon,
Come and sit along with me,
Come and taste tranquility.
THE DROOPING ROSE.
GO, drooping Rose, by heat oppress'd,
Go, and revive on Mary's breast,
Her breast benign, doth all excel,
Go there my Rose, go there and dwell.
Not in the vale, nor on the hill,
Where summer gales their honey spill,
Not Flora's temples, when she's drest,
Are half so fair as Mary's breast.
Were I to live 'till I be old,
And pinch'd by keen December's cold,
I should revive, were I to rest
My aged head on Mary's breast.
THE SAILOR'S ALLEGORY.
LIFE's like a ship in constant motion,
Sometimes high and sometimes low,
Where ev'ry one must brave the ocean,
Whatsoever wind may blow;
If unassail
d by squall or shower,
Wafted by the gentle gales,
Let's not lose the fav'ring hour,
While success attends the sails.
Or if the wayward winds shou'd bluster,
Let us not give way to fear,
But let us all our patience muster,
And learn from reason how to steer;
Let judgment keep you ever steady,
'Tis a ballast never fails,
Should dangers rise, be ever steady,
To manage well the swelling sails.
Trust not too much your own opinion,
While your vessel's under way,
Let good example bear dominion,
That's a compass will not stray.
When thund'ring tempests make you shudder,
And Boreas on the surface rails,
Let good discretion guide the rudder,
And Providence attend the sails.
Then when you're safe from dangers riding,
In some welcome port or bay,
Hope, be the anchor you confide in,
And Care, awhile, enslumber'd lay;
Or when each can's with liquor flowing,
And good fellowship prevails,
Let each true heart, with rapture glowing,
Drink success unto our sails.
STRANGERS AT HOME.
NOW we've drank to the king, to our lasses and friends,
And the Muses appear as the liquor ascends,
Setting Fancy a-wing, or on tip-toe to roam,
For a song or a catch to make
Strangers at home.
May the man be despis'd, of whatever degree,
Who has wealth without feeling to make a friend free,
May his wife, night and morning, his caput well comb,
Who's in want of a heart to make
Strangers at home.
Or the boor that will frown, when an alien appears,
Whose heart fills his bosom with national fears,
That encloses his door, if from Paris or Rome,
Some poor stranger might knock who's in want of a home.
Or when merit appears in her scanty attire,
That may want a good meal, or the warmth of a fire;
May the wretch that denies her, ne'er enter this dome,
To chill the warm hearts of us
Strangers at home.
And may he that's a stranger to friendship and love,
Be deny'd all those blessings we hope for above,
May his mind be perplex'd by some spell-setting gnome,
Who cannot, as we do, make
Strangers at home.
Let us join all our hands with a bountiful mind,
And each to his neighbour, be cordial and kind;
May the spirit of light, when we're rais'd from the tomb,
Give us all a free welcome—as
Strangers at home!
HOLD YOUR JAW.
ACIT much distress'd,
A statesman address'd,
Respecting the silencing law,
The statesman reply'd,
But spoke it aside,
The meaning is—
hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
In forming a mob
To plunder or rob,
Or seize an old friend by the craw,
This law points the way
To Botany Bay,
Then, prithee man,
hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
Old Gallica sat,
As snug as a rat,
Conceal'd in a bundle of straw;
Would have eat all our fat,
Had not sly pussy cat,
Cry'd, sirrah,
pray hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
To judge matters right,
Requires good sight,
Or wou'd you the proper line draw,
Pray run not your rig,
On Tory or Whig,
But prudently
hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
Let each hasty soul,
His passion control,
Remember wise Solomon's saw;
In venting your spite,
You'll get nothing by't,
'Twere better to
hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
May each gallant crop,
Who's head's like a mop,
With care keep his eye on his taw.
For shou'd his long tongue
Cause him to be hung,
He'd certainly
hold his Jaw.
Hold his Jaw, &c. &c.
A MONSTROUS GOOD SONG.
YE poets employ all the force of your lays,
To suppress all the ills of these troublesome days,
When Justice sits blind-folded, crippl'd and lame,
Say, do you not think it a
monstrous shame?
In talking of Monsters, it puts one in mind,
Of the numbers we have, who all differ in kind;
Yet each is permitted to play a foul game,
Say, do you not think it a
monstrous shame?
The great men who're deep in the nation's affairs,
Oft play up old Nick, with the Bulls and the Bears,
With a hum, all Change Alley they set in a flame,
Say, do you not think it a
monstrous shame?
The Lawyer's so deep in his logical skill,
He's sure to entangle you, do what you will,
Shou'd he fail or succeed in your cause, 'tis the same,
Say, do you not think it
a monstrous shame?
The Methodist drives on a monstrous trade,
By setting up scare-crows to make us afraid,
Till kicking in fits you see many a Dame,
Say, do you not think it
a monstrous shame?
Say, is't not the very worst species of vice,
That the comforts of life are so high in their price;
That knaves, by collusion, shou'd play us this game,
I swear and protest, 'tis
a monstrous shame?
Sure every good man must see with much pain,
That the Monster MONOPOLY's, suffer'd to reign,
But shou'd he reign long, ev'ry mortal's to blame,
And if he's not hang'—'tis
a monstrous shame!
The report of each day which is bawl'd in our ears,
Is a monster, which often is made by our fears;
Report tells us fibs, some dark purpose to frame,
That the world will believe—is
a monstrous shame!
HE SAW I LOV'D.
LOW in a vale, beneath a rising hill,
Adown which hurries many a plaintive rill,
In soft accordance to the murm'ring dove,
That morn and evening tells his tale of love;
Or in the grove that hangs the brow beside,
Sits nestling near his faithful feather'd bride;—
'Twas there I first with faithless Edward stray'd,
'Twas there my eyes my foolish heart betray'd.
He saw I lov'd;—which if he had not seen,
He had not then so great a tyrant been,
Or o'er a heart, like mine, exulting shewn,
That he'd no love for me about his own;
Can I forget, while near the Medway's side,
How oft he call'd me his intended bride,
And charm'd me as we trod the banks along,
With some soft tale, or heart-bewitching song?
My ear was charm'd, I listen'd and believ'd;
My love grew stronger as the youth deceiv'd;
Who could have thought that falshood ever hung,
Mix'd with the love-like notes of Edward's tongue!
Ye banks of Medway, witness to his vows,
Ye willows too, that shaded us with boughs;
Ye tides that swell'd, and kiss'd the meadow's brim,
As if you envy'd me each kiss of him.
Come swell again, receiving while I weep
My briny tears, and mix them with the deep;
For Edward's vows are false as subtle sands,
That many a fair and gallant vessel strands;
My Edward's false! and to some other stray'd,
And left me wreck'd beneath this willow shade;
Let me not live, to tyrant love, a slave,
First let me perish in this wat'ry grave!
THE CHICHESTER PACK.
AN HUNTING SONG.
'TWAS six in the morn and the sky wore a dapple-grey,
Cheerly the horn through the village resounds,
Old Morpheus now took his leave of my bed,
And the vapours of slumber all hastily fled,
Say, who would not rise when the huntsman cries hark-away,
Sluggards to horse and join the sweet hounds.
Let urbanical prigs, grown feeble by revelling,
Come and behold of what pleasure we taste,
Each sportsman mounts up on his steed with such grace,
While health paints a ruddiness over each face,
They all bid defiance to impotent drivelling,
Exercise makes the blood vivid and chaste.
How pleasant's the sound when the huntsman is hollowing,
Near to the skirt of some echoing wood,
Each horseman with eagerness joins in the cry,
And the glorious clamour resounds to the sky,
While stretch'd all along the poor victim lies wallowing,
Farmers with pleasure exult in his blood.
WILLY OF THE WOODLAND SIDE.
SURE Willy will never return back again,
I've waited this hour or more;
Like the Linnet, alas, I am left to complain,
Which sits on the whins of the moor.
My heart it will break with concern,
Unless my dear Willy return;
Some damsel has stole the dear heart of my swain,
And I shall ne'er see my sweet Willy again.
The Thrush and the Ouzel are now gone to rest,
The Bat and the Owl are a-wing
The sun hath this hour been sunk in the west,
And the sleep-lulling nightingales sing,
How pensively passes the day,
Whenever my Willy's away,
Some damsel has stole the clear heart of my swain,
And I shall ne'er see my sweet Willy again.
WILLIAM OF ALLERTON GREEN.
WITH a face full of grief, and a heart full of love,
Poor William of Allerton Green,
In the deepest recess of a neighbouring grove,
By Robin, the woodman, was seen;
His looks were intent on a murmuring rill,
Which ran o'er the pebbles below,
The flood from his eyes serv'd the streamlet to fill,
Which sprang from the fountain of woe.
His Phaebe he'd miss'd a whole night and a day,
They'd promis'd to meet at a wake;
He fear'd that some phantom had led her astray.
Which dances each night on the lake;
But Robin, the woodman, now langh'd in his sleeve,
Who well knew the cause of his tears;
And, smiling, he said I'll your sorrows relieve,
And soon put an end to your fears.
'Tis true, the poor thing had mistaken her way,
I met her with grief in each eye,
So, like a poor sheep that was going astray,
She's pounded in safety hard by;
Being all over sorrow, just like to yourself,
And making e'en just such ado,
I thought her a foolish young simpering elf,
Because she was piping for you.
Young William jump'd up, all enraptur'd with joy,
Said, where is my dearest delight?
Now Robin cry'd don't you be jealous my boy,
With me she has hous'd all the night;
Between wife and myself we have kept her from harm,
And caution'd her never to roam,
You have nothing to do but to lend her your arm,
And see the dear creature safe home.
GIVE THE FRIENDLESS CHARITY.
EDWARD loves me, Clara cry'd,
But she knew him full of pride;
In a beggar's habit dress'd,
Put his feelings to the test;
As he proudly passed by,
She entreated Charity.
With a high disdainful look
He but little notice took,
Saying, do not trouble me,
I have nought to do with thee;
Still his Clara drew more nigh,
Crying, sir, your Charity!
While she spake, a gentle gale,
Blue aside her humble veil,
And expos'd her lovely face,
When he slacken'd in his pace;
But she still, with down-cast eye,
Cry'd, dear sir, your Charity!
Soon as he her face beheld,
All the myst'ry was reveal'd;
Saying, while he seiz'd her hand,
Listen now to my demand;
While thus suppliant on my knee,
Give thy Edward Charity.
Beggar'd he must ever be,
Doom'd to endless misery;
Clara, smiling, now reply'd,
Seeing she had check'd his pride,
All your love, dear youth, give me,
Give the friendless Charity!
THE GALLANT LIEUTENANT.
PREPARE, prepare, we're hail'd on board,
'Tis fam'd Britannia gives the word;
See the gallic bird on high,
Turn, turn upon your enemy.
Be steady hearts, be firm and bold,
And fight as Briton's fought of old,
Then swiftly fly on eagle's wing,
To guard your country and your king.
The Lion roars within his den,
The ancient crest of Englishmen,
Undaunted bid you meet the foe,
And lay their mighty vaunting low.
Be steady hearts, &c. &c.
Behold the fair Edina stand
Surrounded by her warlike band,
And see, she draws the hostile blade,
To lend her neighbouring sister aid.
Be steady hearts, &c. &c.
Ere yet the battle is begun,
Unite ye Britons, be as one,
Be firm, true hearted and sincere,
And then, oh then, you've nought to fear.
Be steady hearts, &c. &c.
ELEANOR OF EXETER.
AS wand'ring out one summer's morn,
Near Exon's peerless stream,
I sought fair Eleanor forlorn,
And listen'd to her theme.
My heart was soon a pris'ner made,
Enchanted were my eyes,
My ruddy cheeks began to fade,
My bosom heav'd with sighs.
But when I heard her Edmund's name,
Repeated in each strain,
My heart renew'd its wonted flame,
My cheeks they flush'd again.
The love which modesty forbad,
That she should shew to me,
The doubts which often made me sad,
Were chang'd to exstacy!
I ran and knelt at Ellen's feet,
She trembl'd all with fear,
And tho' she bid me oft retreat,
She did it with a tear.
I wip'd the precious gem away,
And told how much I lov'd;
Her eyes shot forth a vivid ray,
While she that love approv'd.
Then ev'ry morn and ev'ry eve,
We pass'd an hour divine,
Which caus'd full many a swain to grieve,
That Eleanor was mine.
When I from church, all trim and gay,
Led her across the green,
Ev'ry swain would whisp'ring say,
Would I'd so happy been.
EVERY MAN HIS MODE.
SURE every man in his way is a prig,
From the cut of his coat, or the tie of his wig,
And most in some partial opinion is bless'd,
For every man thinks his own is the best.
The Coachman, tho' plain, is an absolute fop,
With his shoulders well squar'd and his head like a mop,
Or his broad silver buttons, and tripple-cap'd coat,
And all the slang speeches of Newgate by rote,
The Bishop and Dean have a snug kind of cut,
With a solemn, a sage, and monastical strut,
The full-puffed sleeve and the well-starched band,
His wristbands like snow and a lilly-white hand.
The Judge is a fop, tho' he looks rather droll,
With his scarlet and fur, and his head like an owl;
And the Sergeant, as if through the Mohawks he'd bled,
Or had lately been scalp'd, by the patch on his head.
The Quaker's a very queer kind of a quiz,
His back so erect, and so prim in his phiz,
In superfine cloth, tho' his coat be but plain,
Yet the Quaker's a coxcomb, a coxcomb in
grain.
The Player's a prigster of every kind,
Of every fashion, of every mind,
Sometimes like a beggar, sometimes like a king,
A tragical, comical, whimsical thing.
Since men about fashion make such a great pother,
And every prig will find fault with his brother,
Let each be indulg'd in his different way,
For Charmen can tell 'tis the whim of a day.
BACCHUS'S ADVICE;
OR,
THE GOOD EVENING.
SINCE all are subject to vexation,
While in this state of expectation,
For joy is oft alloy'd by sorrow,
We laugh to-day, and cry to-morrow;
No more with worldly sickness pine,
But let your regimen be wine.
Let us compound with Time for pleasure,
Our days he gives in scanty measure;
Slowly, oft with grief he crambles,
Perplexing with his thorny brambles,
'Till Bacchus comes, and drives away,
The languid vapours of the day.
Or if you should in love be pining,
And at your mistress' window whining,
When she's unheedful of your 'plaining,
When all your resolution's waning,
Then take a goblet like to mine,
And bury all your love in wine.
While you are young be not too scanty,
When you are old, take bumpers plenty,
For when we slacken in our paces,
And care has wrinkl'd o'er our faces,
Wine makes young men often sage,
And gives a vigour to old age.
Then let us laugh while we are living,
There's nothing ever got by grieving,
And when the spirit leaves its prison,
And to some better state is risen,
Good fellows shall in bumpers join,
And drink a long farewell in wine.
YE BLUSHING RAYS.
YE blushing rays of chearing light,
Come and dispel the shades of night,
The envious night, which often tries
To keep enclos'd my Sarah's eyes.
Ah, gentle maid, tho' fair, be kind,
Come, and illume my pensive mind,
Darksome appears the brightest place,
Whene'er compar'd to Sarah's face.
Disclose those eyes of sapphire blue,
And brighter far than morning dew,
Awake! my Sarah, make me bless'd,
And ease thy Edward's throbbing breast.
THE NEGRO'S SOLILOQUY.
BY yon bright streamers in the sky,
Which glimmer on the sea;
The chearing sun approaches nigh,
Yet brings no hope to me.
The peaceful night yields me no rest,
Which gives to others sleep,
My heart it bleeds within my breast,
My eyes do nought but weep.
The toils, I cou'd endure of day,
Or spurn the tyrant's chain,
But Norah's driven far away,
Which racks my tortur'd brain;
My wife is she,—ah cruel heart,
That cou'd her heart oppress,
But 'tis alone the tyrant's part,
To triumph o'er distress.
Haste, blessed tidings! haste along,
From fair Britannia's isle,
All, come and ease the anxious throng,
And make the slave to smile;
If then good hap, my Nora lives,
These limbs shall ne'er have rest,
Until we meet, oh, then I'll cleave,
Forever to her breast.
MY LITTLE BLITHSOME SPARROW.
WHY turns my Jen her head away,
My little blithsome sparrow,
That us'd to wanton, smile, and play,
Upon the banks of Yarrow.
Sweet her breath, as primrose pale,
Her waist, well shap'd, and narrow,
And with her smiles, she chear'd the dale,
And crown'd, the banks of Yarrow.
Ah what is't makes my Jenny weep,
What makes her look aw sorrow,
Say, has she lost some fav'rite sheep,
That fed on bonny Yarrow?
Alas, alas, I sadly fear,
The cause of aw this sorrow,
She's seen some other swain more dear,
Upon the banks of Yarrow.
Ah, woe is me, ah, well a day!
I see what's caus'd this sorrow,
I'll o'er the hills, and far away,
And think no more of Yarrow.
THE PIRATES.
TO the restless main, we'll bend our sails,
A desp'rate trade to try,
Nor dread the howling, northern gales,
Or low'ring of the sky;
Since there's no living here on land,
Let's scow'r the bounteous sea,
On merchant fair, or contraband,
We'll practice Piracy.
On shore some Pirates thieve apace,
From precept ev'ry day,
To plunder there is no disgrace,
When once you've learnt the way;
Of tythes, the parson, trims the farm,
Prompt by his rev'rend plea,
Then tell me lads, where is the harm;
In water Piracy.
Regraters and forestallers too,
Accumulate their store,
The world must own this sentence true,
They peculate the poor;
The lawyer, is a name I hate,
And all men will agree,
They often lop a man's estate,
What's that, but Piracy.
Then who'd be squeamish, since our lives
Are all we have to lose,
Each man gets bolder as he thrives,
And wealth does bliss diffuse;
The rogue that's rich ne'er cares a jot,
Shou'd he much censur'd be,
For 'tis, alas, each great man's lot
To practice Piracy.
CUPID'S ATTRIBUTES.
A GLEE.
TALK not of books, of dress, of riches,
Talk not of bacchanalian joy,
For beauty 'tis which most bewitches,
All Nature's govern'd by a boy.
At Cupid's touch, e'en hero's tremble,
To beauty, stoics oft submit,
And nothing Clara can resemble,
Which has not beauty, love and wit.
A CATCH,
Which may be read as the lines follow in the printing, or as they are numbered by figures.
1 WHAT makes a modern gentleman
10 The glory of the nation,
5 To be as simple as he can,
8 A coward in a passion.
7 To keep a wench and starve a wife,
2 The Taylor and the Tonsor,
9 Damme, boys, but this is life,
4 To have a wife and sconoe her.
11 The world must end as it began;
6 Say, is it not the fashion,
3 Wed first, then wench, that is the plan,
12 A world of innovation.
THE PRETTY MAID OF CHELMSFORD.
A TRUE STORY.
A Pretty maid, both kind and fair,
Dwell'd in Chelmsford town,
Her pleasing smiles, her easy air,
Engag'd both fop and clown.
Being accosted t'other day,
By a clumsy 'squire,
Who ask'd her if she knew the way
To quench a raging fire.
Pure water, sir, reply'd the maid,
Will quench it in a trice,
O no, said he, you little jade,
You give such cold advice.
Why then, said she, 'tis past my skill,
To tell you what will do;
I'm sure, said he, you know what will;
There's nothing can but you.
Alas-a-day what do you mean,
Reply'd the pretty fair;
'Tis like a coward to complain,
Yo never shou'd despair.
Despair I cannot, cry'd the 'squire,
While you are in my sight,
'Tis you must quench the burning fire,
You set it first alight.
Then straight he clasp'd her round the waist,
And forc'd from her a kiss;
Ho! ho! said she, is that your taste;
Then pray you, sir, take this:
And with a pail, plac'd at the door,
She sluic'd the amorous 'squire;
You're welcome, sir, to this and more,
To quench your raging fire.
PLEASURE'S IN THE VALE.
WHILE giddy pride, from day to day,
In quest of pleasure flies,
She often turns her head away,
Or dazzles with her eyes;
Or sometimes in the splendid throng,
Where courtly forms appear,
She's oft pursu'd the whole night long,
But Pleasure's seldom there.
Say, wou'd you know then, where to find,
The fair capricious maid;
She rests within the humble mind,
The cottage, or the shade:
Or where you hear the nightingale,
Sequester'd, near some brook;
While Cynthia, lights the silent vale,
There, there for Pleasure look.
THE POST BOY.
I'M a Hounslow young lad, and Tidy's my name,
Full many a job have I drove,
Yet never cross'd nag that was windgall'd or lame,
But always had such as would move.
A tight pair of buckskins and boots jetty black,
My spurs, ever polish'd and smart,
A trim little jacket to put on my back,
Was always the pride of my heart.
A good ten miles an hour, in common my pace,
When leaving behind ev'ry rip,
They try to put by, but I lead them a chase,
And tip 'em the smack of the whip;
When oft as I'm driving along in this stile,
Thro' many a town as I go,
The girls of each inn, will bestow me a smile,
Their meaning I very well know.
Then I find 'em agig whenever I call,
And loll at my ease on return,
I laugh, and I jeer, and I talk with 'em all,
But Patty's ray only concern;
At an inn near to Windsor, this little rogue dwells,
Well known by her nice winning air,
That all other girls, of the place, she excels,
And is call'd pretty Patty the Fair.
We have both made a vow, should we get the stuff,
To marry, and so become one;
As others have done, for 'tis common enough,
We'll set up an inn of our own;
Then she'll be call'd madam, and I'll be call'd sir,
We'll stick up the sign of the star,
'Mongst post boys, and waiters, I'll bustle and stir,
While Pat hollows loud in the bar.
CELIA.
A SYMBOLICAL SONG.
OFT have I seen at early morn,
All tempting to the view,
A rose-bud on some lofty thorn
Adorn'd with glitt'ring dew.
A symbol 'twas of that dear fair,
Whose beauties rank'd so high;
From mortal reach, 'twas planted there,
To blush, to charm and die.
Yet, Celia, wer't thou fix'd so near,
With ev'ry peril round;
And should the thorny bushes tear,
I'd triumph in each wound:
To climb for thee, no pains I'd dread,
Regardless bear the smart,
Nor dread what blood of mine I shed,
To get at Celia's heart.
THE MAIDEN'S RESOLUTION.
I'LL henceforth bear without a sigh,
All the secret pangs that grieve me,
No more on love will I rely,
He smiles on purpose
to deceive me.
My Henry vow'd a thousand times,
He would never, never leave me,
The strain of love was in his rhimes,
But, ah, he wrote 'em
to deceive me.
He came at eve, he came at morn,
And begg'd I would of doubts bereave me,
Yet now he's left me all forlorn,
It was his pastime
to deceive me.
The world, thank heaven's fair and wide,
Time and absence shall relieve me,
I'll now assume a maiden's pride,
Henry shall no more deceive me!
PEG OF THE MOOR.
YOUNG Will of the brook did fair Peggy adore,
Who liv'd on the skirts of old Bawtery Moor,
'Till once, at a wake, Will was sadly in fear,
For she nodded at Tom, and at Robin would leer,
He said she was false, and he bitterly swore,
That he'd straight take his leave of Fair Peg of the Moor.
She laugh'd and she jeer'd him for what he had spoke,
And thought all his saying was nought but a joke;
So kept up the frolic, her lover to teaze,
Until he grew frantic, almost, by degrees:
She meant to have heal'd, but she open'd the sore,
Which caus'd him to fly from Fair Peg of the Moor.
A drum and a fife, roar'd aloud in his ears,
And forth from the throng a gay serjeant appears,
Will vow'd for a soldier, he'd instantly go,
And so put an end to his love-kindl'd woe;
Resolv'd to take leave of the maid evermore,
And ne'er again think of Fair Peg of the Moor.
To the serjeant he went, and he told him his mind,
The serjeant was pleas'd and he spoke him so kind,
But while he was 'bout with the wag to enlist,
Poor Peggy came kneeling, and begg'd he'd desist,
Ah! will you, said she, leave the lass you adore,
Come, come, and enlist with your Peg of the Moor.
His bosom, which late with resentment was fill'd,
Relax'd of its heat, and his heart 'gan to yield,
He lifted her up, and he kiss'd her with glee,
Said, since you seem fearful of parting with me,
Let the drummer beat up in the morn, at my door,
And tell that I'm listed to Peg of the Moor.
THE GOLDEN EAR-RING,
OR,
AUTUMNAL LEAF.
GO to the glass, dear Bella, go,
And see what morals you sustain,
Can fashion shield the heart from woe,
Or palliate a growing pain.
While pendant, hanging on the ear,
The golden bauble charms the eye,
An emblem of the waneing year,
Say, who can tell the year we die.
A trifle sometimes yields relief,
But shou'd reflection chance to rise,
We shudder at the yellow leaf,
And fall, to
Time,
a sacrifice.
THE GOOD MERRY FELLOWS ALL UNDER THE HOLLY.
Written for the Green-Holly Society under one of those trees, while in the Vale of Clnyde, in North Wales.
LET ne'er a face be melancholy
While underneath this verdant Holly,
We must laugh while we can,
Since life's but a span,
And to yield to old Care's a folly.
To repine at one's fate is treason,
Since fate has furnish'd us with reason,
Let us ever be seen,
Like this gay ever-green,
In good health throughout the season.
When you're warm in conversation,
'Twere best avoid prevarication,
And when matters grow wrong,
Let's strike up a song,
And drink to each kind relation.
When age with wrinkl'd brow approaches,
And hoary Time on strength encroaches,
May each wint'ry day,
Like the Holly look gay,
And our end be without reproaches.
EDWARD AND EDITHA.
WHEN fair Editha, with young Edward sate,
Upon a cliff, that overlook'd the main,
As if intended by some wayward fate,
A sudden tempest rose, of wind and rain,
Which from the dreadful height with fury cast,
The beauteous maid adown the frightful steep,
Into the green and wide expanded waste,
With Thetis, there, for ever more to sleep;
A maniac wild, distracted, Edward fled,
To all he met, this piteous burthen said,
Say have you seen, where e'er you've been,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
Oft o'er the desert wild, he'd thoughtless roam,
Or where the gloom, by clust'ring limes is made;
And there, bewilder'd, make a transient home,
Or hold vague converse with Editha's shade;
And now he'd sally forth, by frenzy led,
Or from his cell, rush with an hideous scream;
Then tear the beauteous ringlets from his head,
And seek the margin of some mournful stream:
His eyes express'd the tempest in his brain,
And thus he sung, in slow and pensive strain,
Ye Willows green, say, have ye seen,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
Once, where the hurrying torrent rushes down,
With thund'ring roar, upon the gulph below;
While peering rocks, above the brambles frown,
Like stately monarchs, with imperious brow;
There, while poor Edward sate in abject mood,
He thought Editha lav'd upon each wave;
Then brav'd the deepest current of the flood,
And dy'd, like her, within a wat'ry grave.
But ere he sunk beneath the ruthless tide,
Around he look'd, and thus he fainting cry'd,
Ye Willows green, say, have ye seen,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
THE LOAVES AND THE FISHES.
THE Cooks of our councils great plenty provide,
They furnish the tables and then they divide,
But if you would know what their fav'rite dish is,
'Tis the old-fashion'd food, call'd
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
Then round about, round about, round about reel,
Since some have but little and some a great deal.
Each Patriot prates loud of his country's good,
And swears that for charters he'd spill his dear blood;
He may talk of his zeal, but his principle wish is,
To come in at last for
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
When a Poor Man is hung'ry he'll make a long face,
And should he want fish-meat, then give him a place,
Let Neptune and Ceres provide to his wishes,
The old-fashion'd food call'd
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
The Bishop oft prays he translated might be,
Or that chance would present him a much better See,
If a brother should die, the prelate's good wish is,
That heaven would send him
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
And such is the ease with the kites of the law,
When they get a poor client once into their claw,
Should a Judge slip his wind, the first legal wish is,
That they may be
bench'd
near
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
The great men
in
place are for raising the crown,
And those that are
out,
are for pulling it down,
The party on both sides have
self
in their wishes,
And all things give way to
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
May heaven soon grant that we all have a meal,
Save those who pretend that they're chuck full of zeal,
For those who are full, must relinquish their wishes,
When they cannot make room for
the Loaves and the Fishes.
CHORUS.
Then round about, round about, round about reel,
Since some have but little and some a great deal.
SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
WHEN hoary frost hung on each thorn,
Ere night had well withdrawn her gloom,
Poor Phoebe went one wint'ry morn,
From Colnbrook-down to Langly-broom:
When from the brake, or from the rill,
Half clad, and with neglected tresses,
Her rushy basket try'd to fill,
With fresh and green SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
Yet many a chearful strain she'd sing,
While wading thro' the chilling stream;
Her thoughtless spirits were a wing,
With love, or with some jocund theme;
Then with her humble merchandize,
In hopes to conquer her distresses;
Away to London next she hies,
And cries her YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
Thro' many an alley, lane, or street,
Ere luxury has left her bed;
You're sure poor Phoebe next to meet,
Trying to get her daily bread:
The wind and rain she oft defies,
When e'er her purse some mite possesses;
With chearful voice she daily cries,
Come buy my YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
PITY KINDLED INTO LOVE.
IN spite of what my tongue can say,
Celia's deaf to all persuasion;
Cold seems her heart as earthly clay,
When love's my theme, she's all evasion;
Why did the gods impress my mind,
Or raise such ardour in my breast;
And yet the fair be so unkind,
To triumph o'er a heart distress'd.
Say, why thou cherub-dimpl'd boy,
Hast thou fetter'd my affection,
Or why, with frowns my peace destroy,
And leave me wilder'd by distraction?
Ah! wou'd you Celia, were I laid,
Quite breathless in the silent grave,
Wou'd you not then, dear cruel maid,
In pity once your bosom heave?
Fair Celia listen'd to his strain,
With a heart-felt strange obtrusion,
When Pity rais'd a gentle flame,
Which kindl'd into soft delusion;
Love fann'd the blaze with magic breath,
And made her own the genial heat,
No more, no more dear youth of death,
Or vainly kneel at Celia's feet.
The nymph these words so sweetly said,
Strephon was with joy confounded,
Quickly he rear'd his drooping head,
And like the hart elate he bounded;
He seiz'd her hand, and bless'd her tongue.
And smil'd with joy at her decree,
Said, through the plains let it be sung,
That Celia owns her love for me.
WHAT IS LIBERTY?
OLD Johnny Bull the other day,
Came to me across the way,
Said neighbour tell me, tell me pray,
What is Liberty?
I, instantly reply'd, sir,
'Tis rushing like a tide, sir,
Good order to deride, sir,
That is Liberty.
'Tis trying, without reason, sir,
To propagate high treason, sir,
Or cut a brother's wheezen, sir,
That is Liberty.
To knock your neighbour down, sir,
If ever it were known, sir,
That he possess'd a crown, sir,
That is Liberty.
To set up guillotines, sir,
To murder kings and queens, sir,
And all such pretty scenes, sir,
That is Liberty:
To pull down church and state, sir,
At any kind of rate, sir,
Or knock you o'er the pate, sir,
That is Liberty.
To make mankind a clod, sir,
And what is very odd, sir,
Acknowledging no God, sir,
That is Liberty.
John said the times are bad, sir,
The folks are surely mad, sir,
For making such a sad stir,
If that be Liberty.
CLODY AND CLARA: OR LOVE'S CONTROVERSY.
IS it because I love you more
Than ever mortal lov'd before;
Is it your sport to use me so;
Will you not marry, Clara?
—No.
Why will you teaze me ev'ry day,
When I've so often said you nay,
Have I not daily bid you go?
Prithee now leave me Clody.
—No.
Wou'd you then see poor Clody die,
Rather than with his suit comply?
Have you no feelings for my woe,
When I so dearly love you?
—No.
Were you in love all day to pine,
And at my door all night to whine,
My heart wou'd still the harder grow;
Now will you follow Clara?
—No.
Since you're so savage and unkind,
I'll try some other maid to find,
But none shall ever treat me so,
For Clara has discharg'd me.
—No.
I hope my Clody does but rave,
Have I not been thy loving slave?
I did but joke, pray do not go;
Will you not Clara marry?
—No.
You've teaz'd the humble mouse too long,
You've done your faithful Clody wrong;
Now to the winds your love I'll blow,
And heed no more your
yes
or
no!
Prithee my Clody do not go!
Have you not said too often, no?
Are you not joking! sure you are?
Have you not borne the joke too far?
But I will never more do so!
Say, will you not believe me?
—No.
MY OWN FIRE-SIDE.
KIT CUMILE talks of his high-fashion'd joys,
Of each trifle he speaks with delight?
His hours each day with his horse he employs,
And his bottle and mistress at night:
Give me the delights that will cherish the mind,
Dup'd neither by folly or pride,
A wife that is friendly, that's loving and kind,
On my knee by my own fire side.
The over-grown cit, that has throve by the gripe,
Distressing his neighbours around,
Would gladly his sins puff away with his pipe,
Or tries them in liquor to drown'd:
On his riches he fain wou'd eternity raise,
But Time clips the wings of his pride;
Give me that eternal, that genial blaze,
That glows by my own fire-side.
Let princes, for honor, contend in the wars,
And the statesman for profit or place,
Astrologers wander about in the stars,
Or my lord break his neck in the chace;
Such pleasures are transient and dangerous all,
'Tis a truth that can ne'er be deny'd;
I sit at my ease, should they rise, should they fall,
And regale by my own fire-side.
AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.
OF friendship men often will boast to each other,
For we all are consider'd as sister or brother;
Life's a meer masquerade, and 'tis often the case,
That you'll meet an old friend,
that shall wear a new face.
You shall sit at the board where the toasts freely pass,
And good sentiments given on filling each glass,
But meet the next morning, and often you'll trace,
That your over-night friend
has put on a new face.
If you've e'er been connected with placemen or trade,
When your word or your vote would have yielded them aid,
Though your hand might be squeez'd by old Grub or his Grace,
When their ends are once serv'd
they will shew a new face.
Should Fortune by chance throw a purse in your way,
What a many fine things will each flatterer say,
Should she once turn her back, you shall sink in disgrace,
And the devil a friend but
will wear a new face.
Then let each worthy fellow take care of himself,
And keep a few comforts in store on his shelf;
Yet be not a niggard, with prudence keep pace,
And despise that old friend
that shall wear a new face.
THE RESPONSIVE DOVE.
YOUNG Phillis over-night had been,
To dance upon the rural green,
And while she mingl'd with the swains,
Assembl'd from the neighb'ring plains,
The envy'd partner which she chose,
Was Thyrsis, first of village beaus;
As accidents oft come by chance,
They both were wounded in the dance.
Each found within the troubl'd breast
A pain that would not let them rest;
She to the wood sequester'd stray'd,
And in the gloomy shelt'ring shade,
Said to herself, in accents low,
What can it be disturbs me so?
When o'er her head, a list'ning dove,
Responsive cry'd—fair maid 'tis love.
When Thyrsis heard she'd left her home,
Resolv'd with hasty steps to roam,
And with an ardent lover's faith,
He sought each wood's remotest path,
Until he found his Phillis dear,
Who wond'ring cry'd—What brought you here?
When straight reply'd the pensive dove,
What should it be fair maid but love?
I THOUGHT IT WAS QUEER.
AS I lean'd o'er a gate one Midsummer's eve.
When the sky in the brook look'd so clear,
Young Robin came slily and tugg'd at my sleeve,
And I could not help
thinking it queer.
He patted my cheek, and he play'd with my hand,
And he gave such a whimsical leer,
Then talk'd about things I could scarce understand,
That I could not
help thinking it queer.
Now all of a sudden he let his thoughts loose,
And he ask'd if to church I would steer,
I thought him a whimsical mad-headed goose,
For his talking
of matters so queer.
I meant to have chid him for what he had said,
When he whisper'd so soft in my ear,
That if I had check'd him my heart would have bled,
For it panted and
flutter'd so queer.
How long have you lov'd me, pray Robin, said I?
When he answer'd, "a calendar year;"
I then was resolv'd with his suit to comply,
Although it
seemed hasty and queer.
Folks thought it so odd, that an hour or so,
Should have made me so ready appear;
But many a lass who have answer'd with—
no,
Have died
like old maidens so queer!
LOVE AND TIME.
JOHN met with Peg the other day,
As she to church was walking,
And as he had a deal to say,
He straight began a talking;
He ask'd her if her heart was free,
Or if she him approv'd,
And all the while could plainly see,
Her snowy bosom mov'd.
His heart was yet, 'tween hope and fear,
And strove his doubts to smother,
Unless those heavings of his dear,
Might move thus for another;
Awhile she blush'd, and now she smil'd,
Cry'd, prithee be not simple;
Yet love, the more his heart beguil'd,
And sported in each dimple.
She thought he talk'd too soon of love,
'Twas time enough for wooing,
He told her Time did swiftly move,
And Time was Love's undoing;
Peg then reply'd, if that's the case,
'Tis time that we were moving,
And said, with sadness in her face,
He sure wont kill for loving.
Why then cry'd John, let's haste to church,
And all our fears deliver.
Old Time shall linger in the lurch,
And Love shall live for ever.
Away they went—made most of Time,
In spite of all his flurry;
Love saw they both were in their prime,
So bound them in a hurry.
THE ROYAL COTTAGER.
WHEN e'er I think on that dear spot,
On which I fix'd my rural cot,
Then, when my rose hung on my arm,
All free from guile, and free from harm,
My days they glided on with glee,
And all things then, were well with me.
But when once drawn away by fate,
Unto a more exalted state,
By smiling fortune, promis'd fair,
Until she brought her train of care;
'Twas then I first began to see,
That happiness had fled from me.
The noise of cities, glare of courts,
Where gay dissimulation sports,
Where envy fain wou'd blight my Rose,
Because her cheek so purely glows;
Let fortune take her stores again,
Give me my cot, and rural plain.
And while I tread the ocean's side,
The greatest pleasure, greatest pride,
Shall be each day, with Rose to walk,
In social inoffensive talk,
And when each blissful day shall close,
The waves shall lull us to repose.
POLL OF PRESTBURY.
ON a rural village green,
Where the rustic sports are seen,
When the lads and lasses play,
At the close of summer's day;
There young William chanc'd to see,
Pretty Poll of Prestbury.
If she tripp'd the turf along,
If she warbl'd out a song,
William seem'd to shew surprize,
In his love-enraptur'd eyes;
Said, how happy he cou'd be,
With sweet Poll of Prestbury.
Oft he fidl'd near her side,
Asking her to be his bride;
She wou'd turn her head away,
Telling him, she'd nought to say;
William cry'd, ah! turn to me,
Pretty Poll of Prestbury.
Bashfully she rais'd her head,
And these words, in pity said,
" William, you are come too late;
" To be Allen's is my fate."
Cruel fate, (replied he,)
Adieu, sweet Poll, of Prestbury.
Thou wert once, my hope and pride,
All the world was nought beside;
Now each hope is fled away,
Leaving me to love a prey,
To pine, to weep, to think on thee,
My pretty Poll of Prestbury.
THE RATIONALS.
THE viands clear'd, let nought be heard,
But jollity and fun,
And while we sit, let's call in wit,
She'll treat us with a pun.
Good wine you know, makes wit to flow,
Along in full career;
But let your wit, be always fit,
To meet a sage's ear;
For shou'd you dash your thoughts with trash,
Or smuttily besmear,
We'll make you drink, twice to the brink,
To wash your senses clear.
Your lasses toast, but make no boast,
Lest envy shou'd appear,
Some wag, that's by, perhaps may try,
Her blazon'd charms to share;
They are not wise, who riches prize,
And tell where they are laid;
And he's the same, that boasts the fame,
Of his betrothed maid.
Then let's be blithe, lest with his scythe,
Old Time, upon his stumps,
Shou'd come and see, we wanted glee,
And take us in the dumps.
FINIS
W. DYDE, PRINTER, TEWKESBURY.