child?

""Tis really a curofity to view her; "Our little Betfey is a mountain to her; "Such action,fuch a tongue-and yet I query "If the be five years old-a very fairy!" Sir Gilbert anfwers, with a peevish nod, "Pfhaw! let the little huffy have a rod. "There are old folks enough to play the fool, "Children, my lady, fhould be fent to school." And fo they should the naughty ones no doubt,

Who'll neither books nor needle learn without, But I am come of no fuch idle breed;

At four years old, I could both write and read. To be at work my fingers ftill are itchingThese flounces here are all of my own ftitching [Taking up and fhewing her frock

But is my prat diflik'd? For after all I am but young, 'tis true, and fomewhat small ; And taller ladies, I must needs confefs, Might fpeak an Epilogue with more address. However, fome few things I have to plead ; First 'pon my word and credit I'm a maid. Will that pass here for merit ?—I don't knowI'm a new face-which generally does fo, And if you want me louder, taller, bolder, Have patience hall mend, as I grow older. ODE for his MAJESTY's Birth-Day,

June 4, 1769. Performed before their Majefties and the Royal Family. Written by William Whitehead, Efq; Poet Laureat, and fet to Mufic by Dr. Boyce, Mafter of the King's Band of Muficians.

P

ATRON of arts! at length by thee Their home is fix'd : Thy kind de

Where judgment was away. Through ofier twigs th' acanthus rofe Th'idea charms; the artift glows!

But 'twas his skill to please
Which bad the graceful foliage fpread
To crown the stately column's head
With dignity and cafe.

When great Apelles, pride of Greece,
Frown'd on the almost finish'd piece,
Defpairing to fucceed,

What tho' the miffile vengeance pafs'd From his rafh hand, the random caft Might dafh the foam, but skill had formẻ the fteed.

Nor lefs the Phidian arts approve
Labour and patient care,
Whate'er the skilful artists trace,
Laocoon's pangs, or foft Antinous' face.
By skill, with that diviner air,

The Delian god does all but move;
'Twas skill gave terrors to the front of Jove,
To Venus every grace.

-And shall each facred feat,

The vales of Arno, and the Tuscan ftream,
No more be vifited with pilgrim feet?
No more on sweet Hymettus' fummits
dream

The fons of Albion? or below,
Where Ilyffus waters flow,

Trace with awe the dear remains
Of mould'ring urns, and mutilated fanes ?
-Far be the thought. Each facred feat,
Each monument of ancient fame,
Shall still be vifited with pilgrim feet,
And Albion gladly own from whence the
caught the flame.

Still fhall her ftudious youth repair,
Beneath their King's protecting care,

To ev'ry clime which art has known;
And rich with spoils from ev'ry coaft
Return, 'till Albion learn to boast
An Athens of her own,

The FIRST of MAY.
Y tale I take from times of old,'
When truth was more efteem'd than
Gold;

M

When pride walk'd threadbare and despis'd, When folks were better exercis'd

Than now-a-days, when broils and strife

Defile the Narra' of each life.

A country villa, near a green,
Inhabitants but twice fixteen;
An honeft 'fquire held the hall,
Surrounded by a turfen wall,
The friend and landlord of 'em all.
A neighbourhood fo well inclin'd,
So fimple, honeft, and fo kind,
Each try'd his neighbour to excell,
In friendship and in doing well.

As foon as morning dawn appear'd,
Or early chanticleer was heard,

}

Fre

the fond herds began to feed,
Or fairies fled the rifing mead,
The hrifty villagers arofe,
Andfrom the bed of sweet repofe
They met the labours of the day,
And chearful fung the time away;
At even-tide, when work was done,
They all return'd at fetting fun,
And met upon the plain-with glee
They pip'd and danc'd upon the lee;
There in a lowly simple state
They felt the joys that fly the great,
No load of confcience gall'd their breast;
Content and labour gave 'em reft.

"Twas now the rofy morn of May,
When Flora in her best array
Bedeck'd each little rifing hill
With cowflips fweet, or daffodil ;
A may-pole tall with garlands hung,
And rows of bird's eggs neatly ftrung,
Was plac'd upon a verdant green,
A tribute to the morning's queen.

Each ruftic fummons forth his fair
And round the pole they all repair.
The 'fquire 'mongst the rest arose,
As 'twas his cuftom to difpofe
Of various gifts upon that day,
And gave good ale and cakes away.

Twelve garlands one small hillock grac'd ;

In fimple order each was plac'd.
The honeft 'fquire now propos'd
That each by choice fhou'd be difpos'd;
Said ev'ry fwain had equal right
To any garland now in fight,
And all beneath, if ought thou'd be,
To claim his right and property.
For each fome little prize contain❜d,
So that the lofer something gain'd,
Tho' fome were greater than the reft,
Each fwain now ftrove to choose the best.

Young Ralph, a fair and comely fwain,
The very hero of the plain,
Beheld fair Alecy on her way;
No ftar fo bright, no nymph fo gay;
Her fmall and easy wait was bound

With wreaths most sweet; her head was crown'd

With ev'ry flow'r of the field,

That Flora's felf to her might yield.
She on her head, a garland bore,
Its equal ne'er was feen before.

Young Ralph fet off full speed to meet
This lovely maid, this nymph compleat,
And ftruck the reft with great surprize,
To fee him claim her for his prize,
He first bereav'd her of her crown,
And claim'd the maiden as his own.
Now ev'ry youngster on the plain
Look'd up with envy on the fwain,
But all in juftice did declare
He won the maid-the trick was fair.
The 'fquire paus'd, and shook his head,
His hearty fmile of humour fied
To fee his child another's claim,
And now he 'gan himself to blame.
The fwain beheld the good man's eyes,
With tears he offer'd back his prize.

The 'fquire, well pleas'd at fuch a deed,
Cry'd you deserve her now indeed!
It glads me much, young fwain, to find,
Thou bear'ft fo great, fo good a mind;
Here, take her lad-I murmur not
If he's contented with her lot.

She fmil'd confent, and cheer'd the droop ing fwain,

She gave her hand, her meaning to explain. The 'fquire faw, and blefs'd the blooming

I

will be at the expence of having it engraved, it may chance to be agreeable to the purchafers of the Oxford Magazine.

I

am, GENTLEMEN, Your most obedient humble fervant, Oxford, June 16, 1769.

S. T.