No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud,
Nor parish-clerk who calls the psalms so clear,
Like Bowzybeus sooths th' 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: Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend, Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend: Where swallows in the winter's season keep, And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep:
Ver. 47.] Nec tantum Phoebo gaudet Parnasia rupes, Nec tantum Rhodope mirantur et Ismarus Orphea. Virg.
Ver. 51. Our swain had probably read Tusser, from whence he might have collected these philosophical observations.
Namque canebat utį magnum per inane coacta, &c.
How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close,
Till the bright sun has nine times set and 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:
How pedlars' stalls with glitt'ring 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 lott'ries 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 vent'rous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding in his party-colour'd jacket
Tosses the glove, and jokes at ev'ry packet:
Of rareeshows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of Pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats.
Then sad he sung The Children in the Wood;
Ah! barb'rous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!
How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild,
And fearless at the glitting faulchion smil'd:
Their little corpse the robin-red breasts found,
And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around.
Ah! gentle Birds! if this verse last 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 rais'd his voice, to tell
What woeful wars in Chevy-chace befell,
When Piercy drove the deer with hound and horn,
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!
Ah! With'rington! more years thy life had crown'd
If thou had'st never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the Squire who fought on bloody stumps
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.
All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,
How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants: 110
How the grave brother stood on bank so green,
Happy for him if mares had never been!
Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm.
Ver. 97. Fortunate ambo, si quid mea carmina possunt,
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo.
Ver. 99.1 A Song in the Comedy of Love for Love, beginning, A Soldier and a Sailor, &c."
Ver. 109.] A Song of Sir J. Denham's. See his Poems, Ver. 112.] Et fortunatam si nunquam armenta fuissent
He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot,
Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot.
Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore,
Or Wantley's Dragon slain by valiant Moore;
The bow'r of Rosamond, or Robin Hood,
And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?
His carols ceas'd; the list'ning maids and swains
Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.
Sudden he rose, and as he reels along,
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat sheaf drops adown;
The Pow'r that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Till ruddy like his face the sun descends.
Ver. 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam Nisi, &c. Virg. Ver. 117. Old English ballads.
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