All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,
How to fleek mares ftarch quakers turn gallants;
How the brother stood on bank fo green.
grave
Happy for him if mares had never been!
Then he was feiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a fudden fung the hundredth pfalm.
He fung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, 115 Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot.
Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore,
Or Wantley's Dragon flain by valiant Moore,
The Bow'r of Rofamond, or Robin Hood,
And how the grafs now grows where Troy town flood?
His carols ceas'd: the lift'ning maids and fwains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rofe; and, as he reels along,
Swears kiffes sweet should well reward his fong.
The damfels laughing fly: the giddy clown 125
Again upon a wheat-fheaf drops adown;
The pow'r that guards the drunk, his fleep attends,
Till, ruddy, like his face, the fun defcends.
109. A Song of Sir J. Denham's. See his Poems.
112. Et fortunatam, fi nunquam armenta fuissent,
117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam nifi, &c.
117. Old English ballads.
IN IMITATION OF THE POLLIO OF VIRGIL.
YE fylvan Muses, loftier strains recite,
Not all in fhades and humble cotts delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the diftant grounds.
The driving gales convey the fwelling founds;
Th' attentive fwain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What fudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye ftags, and all ye beasts of chace;
This hour destruction brings on all your race: IO
See the pleas'd tenants duteous off'rings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocers sweetest ware;
With the new health the pond'rous tankard flows,
And old October reddens ev'ry nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle ftand,
Kifs his moift lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the fhrill horn's echoing founds,
And learns to lifp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley fhall in paternal acres grow;
The bee fhall fip the fragrant dew from flow'rs,
To give metheglin for his morning hours;
For him the cluftring hop fhall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.
His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monftrous tales indulge his greedy ears; 26 How, when youth ftrung his nerves, and warm'd his veins,
He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains.
He leads the staring infant through the hall,
Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall; 30 Tells, how this ftag through three whole countys fled,
What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the defp'rate chace, and all his cheats;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd feven courfers of the fleeteft breed;
How high the pale he leapt, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the *witch!
Thefe ftories, which defcend from fon to fon,
The forward boy fhall one day make his own. 40
The most common accident to Sportfmen; to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.
Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye; How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules, And the long tyranny of grammar-schools? Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod, Lash'd into Latin by the tingling red; No, let him never feel that smart disgrace: Why should he wifer prove than all his race?
When rip'ning youth with down o'erfhades his chin,
And ev'ry female eye incites to fin;
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With fmacking lip shall raise his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft' be confcious of their ftolen love.
But think, Prifcilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watry qualms shall own thy crime.
How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's preft,
To fee the white drops bathe thy fwelling breast!
Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy shame,
And the young Squire foreftall a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's fweeping
With levell'd harvests has beftrown the land;
On fam'd St. Hubert's feaft, his winding horn
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn!
This memorable day his eager fpeed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rifing steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the duft his groveling honour lies;
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged flone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone :
O venturous youth, thy thirft of game allay;
May't thou furvive the perils of this day!
He shall survive; and in late years be sent
To fnore away Debates in Parliament.
The time shall come, when his more solid sense
With nod important shall the laws dispense;
A Justice with grave Juftices fhall fit;
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. 80
No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game.
Affift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken pow'rs,
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours!
Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer, Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine ?
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