To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the goat is just behind." The goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; 66 My back," says she, "may do you harm; The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm." The sheep was feeble, and complained She now the trotting calf addressed, "Shall I," says he,of tender age, John Gay.-Born 1688, Died 1732. If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word, They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand. John Gay.-Born 1688, Died 1732. 802.-SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL. "Oh! where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew." William, who high upon the yard Rock'd with the billow to and fro, The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast (If chance his mate's shrill call he hear), And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, 803.-A BALLAD. 'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind; A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined. She casts a wistful look; Twelve months are gone and over, The merchant, robb'd of pleasure, But none that loves you so. How can they say that nature Has nothing made in vain ; Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover, That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover, And leave the maid to weep. 804. THE COUNTRY BALLAD Sublimer strains, O rustic muse! prepare; 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil; Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about; The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow Cut down the labours of the winter plough. When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, His hat and oaken staff lay close beside; That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing, Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string; That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed, Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; That Bowzybeus who, with jocund tongue, Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung: They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright, And in disport surround the drunken wight. Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous 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 kissed with smacking lip the snoring lout (For custom says, "Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er; Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd Sings with a note so shrilling, sweet, and loud; No parish-clerk, who calls the psalms so clear, Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. Of nature's laws his carols first begun, Why the grave owl can never face the sun. For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, And only sing and seek their prey by night. How turnips hide their swelling heads below, And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs. Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail, And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed, And in what climates they renew their breed Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend); rose (For huntsmen by their long experience find, That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind). Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows, For still new fairs before his eyes arose. The various fairings of the country maid. And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. The lads and lasses trudge the street along, sells His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; Jack Pudding, in his party-coloured jacket, Then sad he sung "The Children in the (Ah, barbarous uncle, stained with infant blood!) How blackberries they plucked in deserts wild, And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled; Their little corpse the robin-redbreasts found, And strewed with pious bill the leaves around. (Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song.) For "Buxom Joan" he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell What woful wars in "Chevy Chase" befell, When " Percy drove the deer with hound and horn; Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!" Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crowned, If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps, By future bards be wailed in doleful dumps. "All in the land of Essex" next he chaunts, How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways, Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays: For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground, Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound; For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt sub side. My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame, From the great theme to build a glorious name; To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown, My country's be the profit, mine the praise! When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And "clean your shoes" resounds from every voice; When late their miry sides stage-coaches show, And their stiff horses through the town move slow; When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies, The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound, And with the scalloped top his step be crowned; Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy fect Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet. Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, Fach stone will wrench the unwary step aside; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain; And, when too short the modish shoes are worn, You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn. Nor should it prove thy less important care, To choose a proper coat for winter's wear. True Witney broadcloth, with its shag un. shorn, Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn: wear Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear? Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent, Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent. Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace, Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost. If the strong cane support thy walking hand, Chairmen no longer shall the wall command; Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey, And rattling coaches stop to make thee way: Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use. Thus some beneath their arm support the cane; The dirty point oft checks the careless pace, John Gay.-Born 1688, Died 1732. 806.-DESCRIPTION OF A HARE HUNT. Now golden Autumn from her open lap Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields are shorn; Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views And groaning staddles bend beneath their load. All now is free as air, and the gay pack Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord awed: But courteous now he levels every fence, Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud, Charmed with the rattling thunder of the field. Oh bear me, some kind Power invisible ! To that extended lawn, where the gay court View the swift racers, stretching to the goal; Games more renowned, and a far nobler train, Than proud Elean fields could boast of old. Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here, And Pindar's voice, to do their merit right! Or to those spacious plains, where the strained eye In the wide prospect lost, beholds at last Sarum's proud spire, that o'er the hills ascends, And pierces through the clouds. Or to thy downs, Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed beagle climbs, With matchless speed, thy green aspiring brow, And leaves the lagging multitude behind. Hail, gentle Dawn! mild blushing goddess, hail! Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread way, And orient pearls from every shrub depend. Thy early meal, or thy officious maids, My courser hears their voice; see there with ears And tail erect, neighing he paws the ground; Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs, Huntsman, lead on! behind the clustering pack Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip Loud-clanging, and thy harsher voice obey: Spare not the straggling cur, that wildly roves; But let thy brisk assistant on his back Imprint thy just resentments; let each lash Bite to the quick, till howling he return And whining creep amid the trembling crowd. Here on this verdant spot, where nature kind, With double blessings crowns the farmer's hopes; Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead Affords the wandering hares a rich repast, Throw off thy ready pack. See, where they spread And range around, and dash the glittering dew. If some stanch hound, with his authentic voice, Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribe The breaks, and up yon furrow drive along! How leisurely they work, and many a pause The harmonious concert breaks; till more assured With joy redoubled the low valleys ring. If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, clings Around her head, of the same russet hue Almost deceived my sight, had not her eyes With life full-beaming her vain wiles betrayed. At distance draw thy pack, let all be hushed, Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, And seem to plough the ground! then all at More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick clouds Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs scarce print The grass unbruised; with emulation fired They strain to lead the field, top the barred gate, O'er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend O'er their arched necks; with steady hands, by turns Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, And with the panting winds lag far behind. Huntsman her gait observe; if in wide rings She wheel her mazy way, in the same round Persisting still, she'll foil the beaten track. But if she fly, and with the favouring wind Urge her bold course; less intricate thy task: Push on thy pack. Like some poor exiled wretch The frighted chase leaves her late dear abodes, O'er plains remote she stretches far away, Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaks Above the humble copse aspiring rise, The pack wide-opening load the trembling air With various melody; from tree to tree Scamp'ring he flies, nor heeds his master's cali; The weary traveller forgets his road, And climbs the adjacent hill; the ploughman leaves The unfinished furrow; nor his bleating flocks Are now the shepherd's joy; men, boys, and girls Desert the unpeopled village; and wild crowds Spread o'er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seized. Look, how she pants! and o'er yon op'ning glade Slips glancing by; while, at the further end, Slily she skirts; behind them cautious creeps, |