Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes,
And ery up parson Horne,
Their manly spirit I admir'd,

And prais'd their noble zeal,

Who had, with flaming tongue and pen,
Maintain❜d the public weal;
But ere a month or two had past,
I found myself betray'd,

"Twas self and party after all,
For all the stir they made;

At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,

I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

What next to do, I mus'd awhile,
Still hoping to succeed,

I pitch'd on books for company,
And gravely try'd to read:

I bought and borrow'd every where,
And study'd night and day,

Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote

That happen'd in my way. Philosophy I now esteem'd

The ornament of youth,

And carefully, through many a page,

I hunted after truth.

A thousand various schemes I try'd,
And yet was pleas'd with none,
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

And now, ye youngsters every where,
That wish to make a show,

Take heed in time, nor fondly hope

For happiness below;

What you may fancy pleasure here,

Is but an empty name,

And girls, and friends, and books, and so,
You'll find them all the same.

Then be advis'd and warning take

From such a man as me;

I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal

Nor one of high degree;

You'll meet displeasure every where;

Then do as I have done,

Even tune your pipe, and please yourselves,
With John o' Badenyon.

XXII.

MARY OF BUTTERMERE

In Buttermere's woods and wilds among,
A floweret blossom'd, and fair it grew;
'Twas pure as the brook that rippl'd along,

Or the pearly drops of the morning dew.

This song refers to the unfortunate Mary Robinson, better known by the name of Mary of Buttermere.

It sweetly smil'd in its native bower,

But a cold blast came like the wintry air, Which nipt this sweet and enchanting flower, The lovely Mary of Buttermere.

O! sweet was the hour, that like morning clear,
Rose on this gem so pure and bright,
But saw it steep'd in deep sorrow's tear,
To wither amid the shades of night.
Hope fled from the cheek of roseate hue,
And the lily pale now languish'd there,
And dim look'd the eye, of heavenly blue,
Of the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

For there was a charm, and a witching spell,
That stole her guileless heart away;

She lov'd, but, alas! she lov'd too well,
And felt a flame that could ne'er decay.
Now wandering the wild, unseen, unknown,
Her sigh is the sigh of sad despair,-
Like the blighted flower in its bower alone,

Is the lovely Mary of Buttermere.

XXIII.

SONG.

AIR. What ails this heart o' mine,

&

Her kiss was soft and sweet,

Her smiles were free and fain,
And beaming bright the witching glance
Of her I thought my ain.

That kiss has poison'd peace,
Her smiles have rous'd despair,

For kindly tho' her glances be

They beam on me nae mair.

Now lonely's every haunt

That I once trode with joy,

And dull and drear the sacred grove

Where we were wont to toy.

The rose can please nae mair,

The lily seems to fade,

And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang,

That us'd to cheer the glade.

This bosom once was gay,
But now a brow of gloom
Pourtrays, in characters of care,
That it is pleasure's tomb.

Yet none shall hear the sigh

That struggles to be free,

No tear shall trace this sallow cheek,

No murmur burst from me.

Tho' silent be my woe,

'Tis not the less severe

Forlorn I brood on former joys
To love and mem'ry dear.

She minds na o' the vows
That seal'd our youthful love,

But heaven has records that will last,
My faith and truth to prove,