He leaves my hand; see, to the west he's flown, To call my true-love from the faithless town,

66

With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
I pare this pippin round and round again.
My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain,
I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,
Upon the grass a perfect L is read;
Yet on my heart a fairer L is seen,
Than what the paring makes upon the green.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."

This pippin shall another trial make, See from the core two kernels brown I take; This on my cheek for Lubberkin is worn; And Boobyclod on t' other side is borne. But Boobyclod soon drops upon the ground, A certain token that his love's unsound; While Lubberkin sticks firmly to the last: Oh were his lips to mine but join'd so fast! "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.” As Lubberkin once slept beneath a tree, I twitch'd his dangling garter from his knee, He wist not when the hempen string I drew; Now mine I quickly doff, of inkle blue. Together fast I tie the garters twain; And while I knit the knot repeat this strain: "Three times a true-love's knot I tie secure, Firm be the knot, firm may his love endure!" "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."

As I was wont, I trudged last market-day, To town, with new-laid eggs preserved in hay. I made my market long before 'twas night, My purse grew heavy, and my basket light, Straight to the 'pothecary's shop I went, And in love powder all my money spent. Behap what will, next Sunday after prayers, When to the ale-house Lubberkin repairs, These golden flies into his mug I'll throw, And soon the swain with fervent love shall glow. With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around." But hold our Lightfoot barks, and cocks his

ears,

O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears,
He comes! he comes! Hobnelia's not bewray'd,
Nor shall she crown'd with willow die a maid.
He vows, he swears, he'll give me a green gown:
O dear! I fall adown, adown, adown!

SATURDAY; OR THE FLIGHTS.
BOWZYBEUS.

SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare;
Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse,
While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'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 gather'd sheaves about;
The lads with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow,
Cut down the labours of the winter plough.
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,
She feign'd her coat or garter was untied;
Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,
And merry reapers what they list will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill,
That echo answer'd from the distant hill:
The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,
Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd.

When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,
Or with the resin'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 wond'rous 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 kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout: (For custom says, "Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.") By her example, Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering swains with stammering speech be

spoke :

"To you my lads, I'll sing my carol o'er,
As for the maids-I've something else in store."
No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd,
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet, and loud;
Nor parish clerk, who calls the psalm 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 upward 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;

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 glittering 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 scissors
spies,

And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
Of lotteries 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 venturous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding, in his party-colour'd jacket,
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of raree-shows 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, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!)
How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild,
And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled;
Their little corpse the robin red-breasts found,
And strew'd 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 tailor made the maid a wife.

To louder strains he raised his voice to tell What woeful wars in "Chevy-chace" befel, When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn,

Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!" Ah, Witherington, more years thy life had crown'd,

If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound! Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps, By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

64

All in the land of Essex" next he chants, How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so greenHappy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of "Taffey Welsh," 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 Bower of Rosamond," or "Robin Hood," And how the "grass now grows where Troy town stood?"

His carols ceased: the listening 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 power that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.

IN IMITATION OF THE "POLLIO" OF VIRGIL.

YE sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite:
Not all in shades and humble cots delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the distant grounds
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds:
Th' attentive swain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What sudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye stags, and all ye beasts of

chase;

This hour destruction brings on all your race:
See, the pleased tenants duteous offerings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the ponderous tankard
flows,

And old October reddens every nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand,
Kiss his moist lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the shrill horn's echoing sounds,
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley shall in paternal acres grow;
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flowers,
To give metheglin for his morning-hours;
For him the clustering hop shall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.

His sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears; How, when youth strung 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;
Tells how the stag through three whole counties
fled,

What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled.

Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the desperate chase, and all his cheats;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tired seven coursers of the fleetest breed;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the
ditch,

When the hound tore the haunches of the witch!

These stories, which descend from son to son,
The forward boy shall one day make his own.

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 rod;
No, let him never feel that smart disgrace:
Why should he wiser prove than all his race?

This memorable day his eager speed

Shall urge with bloody heel the rising 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 dust his grovelling honour lies;
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay:
Mayst thou survive the perils of this day!
He shall survive; and in late years be sent
To snore away debates in parliament.

The time shall come when his more solid

sense

With nod important shall the laws dispense;
A justice with grave justices shall sit;
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit.
No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace,
No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers shall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd

game.

Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers, To sing his friendships and his midnight hours!

Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer, Firm cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth

year:

Brew'd, or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine?
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have
sprung!

It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul scandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the memory with injurious words.
O where is wisdom when by this o'erpower'd?
The state is censured, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale so
strong?

Hear then the dictates of prophetic song.
Methinks I see him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,

'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead drunk, his servile crew supinely snore;
Triumphant, o'er the prostrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks, and like his glorious sires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires.

SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED
SUSAN.

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came aboard.

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, Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sigh'd and cast his eyes below: 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; Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again. 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 mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

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,

The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard:

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.

THE COURT OF DEATH.

A FABLE.

DEATH, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate:
Th' attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train!
Crowd the vast court.

With hollow tone,
A voice thus thunder'd from the throne:
"This night our minister we name,
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand."

All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat possess'd,
Advanced, and for the wand address'd.
"I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let those express my fervent zeal;
On every slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere."

Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place;
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And every joint and sinew plies;
Still working when he seems suppress'd,
A most tenacious, stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due:
""Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy:
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face,
Prove my pretension to the place."

Stone urged his over-growing force;
And, next, Consumption's meagre corse,
With feeble voice that scarce was heard,
Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr❜d:
"Let none object my lingering way,
I gain, like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken every foe
By long attack, secure though slow."

Plague represents his rapid power,

Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand,

Now expectation hush'd the band;

When thus the monarch from the throne:

He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all.

A BALLAD.

FROM THE "WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT."
"TWAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined.
Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crown'd with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days:
Why didst thou, venturous lover,

Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
The merchant, robbed of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,

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 wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd she for her dear; Repay'd each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spied;

Then like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head and died.*

[ What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What-d'ye call-it," "Twas when the seas were roaring." I have been well informed that they all contributed.-CowPER to Unwin, Aug. 4, 1783.]

SWEET are the charms of her I love, More fragrant than the damask rose, Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows; Refreshing as descending rains

To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.

True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon;
From every other charmer free,
My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers

Of verdant spring her notes renew;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;

As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies: No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring. Devouring time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble towers, and gates of brass, In his rude march he levels low: But time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart

To mingle with the bless'd above,
Where, known to all his kindred train,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.

Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,
Twin-born, from heaven together came:
Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their name; Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, When time and death shall be no more.

MATTHEW GREEN was educated among the Dissenters; but left them in disgust at their precision, probably without reverting to the mother church. All that we are told of him, is, that he had a post at the Custom House, which he discharged with great fidelity, and died at a lodging in Nag's-head court, Gracechurch-street, aged forty-one. His strong powers of mind had received little advantage from education, and were occasionally subject to depression from hypochondria; but his conversation is said to have abounded in wit and shrewdness. One day his friend Sylvanus Bevan complained to him that while he was bathing in the river he had been saluted by a waterman with the cry of "Quaker Quirl," and wondered how he should have been

FROM "THE SPLEEN."

CONTENTMENT, parent of delight, So much a stranger to our sight, Say, goddess, in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face;

[* He was a clerk in the Custom House, on, it is thought, a small salary; but the writer of this note has hunted over official books in vain for a notice of his appointment, and of obituaries for the time of his death.]

known to be a Quaker without his clothes. Green replied, "By your swimming against the stream."

His poem, "The Spleen," was never published during his lifetime. Glover, his warm friend, presented it to the world after his death; and it is much to be regretted, did not prefix any account of its interesting author. It was originally a very short copy of verses, and was gradually and piecemeal increased. Pope speedily noticed its merit, Melmoth praised its strong originality in Fitzosborne's Letters, and Gray duly commended it in his correspondence with Walpole, when it appeared in Dodsley's collection. In that walk of poetry, where Fancy aspires no further than to go hand in hand with common sense, its merit is certainly unrivalled.†

Thy gracious auspices impart,

And for thy temple choose my heart. They whom thou deignest to inspire, Thy science learn, to bound desire; By happy alchemy of mind

They turn to pleasure all they find;

[There is a profusion of wit everywhere in Green; reading would have formed his judgment and harmonized his verse, for even his wood-notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music.--GRAY.]