[]
One Thouſand Eight Hundred; OR, I WISH YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR. BEING A CHOICE COLLECTION OF FAVOURITE SONGS, ON SERIOUS, MORAL, AND LIVELY SUBJECTS.
Written and carefully reviſed BY GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY.
When Winter nights grow dull and long,
Propoſe the dance, or ſing your ſong;
Or join concordant in ſome glee;
For Life ſhould never vapid be.
TEWKESBURY: PRINTED BY W. DYDE; AND SOLD BY WEST AND HUGHES, PATERNOSTER-ROW; C. CHAPPLE, PALL-MALL; AND S. REED, STRAND, LONDON. 1800.
To Mr. INCLEDON.
[]SIR,
FROM the very eminent line you are ranked in as a vocal performer, and the great pleaſure I have often re⯑ceived when I have heard you ſing ſome of the following Songs, I thought there would be no impropriety, truſting at the ſame time that you would not take it amiſs, were I to inſcribe the following little work to you. I have been the more particularly urged to publiſh my ſongs in this manner, from hearing of the frequent applications which have been made for them to almoſt every bookſeller in town, who have not had it in their power until now, to gratify their different cuſtomers. There are more people [4] capable of reading than ſinging a ſong, therefore, thoſe that have not ſtudied mu⯑ſic ſufficiently, may have the opportunity of looking over the words in the cloſet; many of them have been ſet by ſome of the moſt able compoſers, and many alſo by the moſt moderate ones; which have often been the cauſe of putting the reader out of humour with the words, from the mu⯑ſician's miſconception of the ſubject, or his deficiency in reſpect to effect and harmony. Many an author has had the mortification of ſeeing his words martyred by the com⯑poſer of the muſic, who has evidently ſhewn, by his emphaſis (if I may be allowed that phraſe) being wrongly placed, that although he might be full maſter of his ſcience, ſo far as to know a crotchet from a minim, yet if you had ſet him to read, perhaps, he did not know a ſubſtantive from a verb, and a total ſtranger altogether of antitheſis or inflection; in ſuch caſe, good words are often proſtituted through ignorance, which is as mortifying as if any body were to put a valuable piece of broad cloth into the hands of an unſkilful Taylor, who having no taſte, in reſpect to faſhion or ſhape, [5] often produces a coat not only unfit to be worn, but unfit to be ſeen alſo, from which reaſon, it has diſguſted, and been thrown upon the ſhelf to rot in oblivion. And on the other hand, many a ſong which has been meerly meaſure, without the leaſt pre⯑tention to the name of Poetry, diveſted at the ſame time of inſtructive matter as well as of figure or incident, has become a fa⯑vourite ditty with the Public, from the in⯑genuity of the compoſer of the muſic, who may have been lucky enough to give it a good tune.
In the above inſtance we are told the Italian compoſers do often excel; and the late ingenious Bonnel Thornton, joint writer of the Connoiſieur, has, in ſome part of his works, given us a tranſlation of one of their popular airs, which we alſo find to be ſtrictly meaſure, and runs thus:
" Where, which, and wherefore,
" There, this, and therefore!!!"
This is a kind of faſhionable ſcaffolding for the muſic, which the compoſer builds upon, [6] and finiſhes his part by line and rule, like a good maſon or bricklayer, who never conſiders, or looks into the imperfection of the architect, but is perfectly contented that he has finiſhed his part of the buſineſs well, let the ſuperſtructure be ever ſo con⯑temptible; but you are a better judge of muſic than I am, and if this metaphor ſhould not hold good, you will be kind enough to pardon,
Sir,
Your moſt obedient Servant, GEO. S. CAREY.
CONTENTS.
[]- I WISH you an Happy New Year PAGE 5
- The Loyal Tar 6
- The Maſon's Allegory 7
- The Soldier's Reſolution 7
- The Diſconſolate Sailor 8
- The Diſconſolate Sailor's Return 9
- Mary of the Tyne 9
- The Maid of the Rock 10
- The Affectionate Soldier 11
- Sequel to Poll of Plymouth 12
- The Shipwrecked Boy 12
- The Shipwrecked Boy at Home 13
- The Furloughed Soldier 14
- On Yonder Stile 15
- Allen Brooke of Windermere 15
- Love without Return 16
- The Valetudinarian 17
- The Drooping Roſe 18
- The Sailor's Allegory 18
- Strangers at Home 19
- Hold your Jaw 20
- A monſtrous good Song 21
- He ſaw I Lov'd 23
- The Chicheſter Pack 24
- Willy of the Woodland Side 24
- William of Allerton Green 25
- Give the Friendleſs Charity 26
- The Gallant Lieutenant 27
- Eleanor of Exeter 28
- [8]Every Man his Mode PAGE 29
- Bacchus's Advice; or, the Good Evening 30
- Ye Bluſhing Rays 31
- The Negro's Soliloquy 31
- My Little Blithſome Sparrow 32
- The Pirates 33
- Cupid's Attributes 34
- A Catch 34
- The Pretty Maid of Chelmsford 35
- Pleaſure's in the Vale 36
- The Poſt Boy 36
- Celia 37
- The Maiden's Reſolution 38
- Peg of the Moor 39
- The Golden Ear-Ring; or, Autumnal Leaf 40
- The Good Merry Fellows all under the Holly 40
- Edward and Editha 41
- The Loaves and the Fiſhes 42
- Spring-Water Creſſes 44
- Pity Kindled into Love 44
- What is Liberty? 46
- Clody and Clara; or, Love's Controverſy 47
- My Own Fire-Side 48
- An Old Friend with a New Face 49
- The Reſponſive Dove 50
- I thought it was Queer 50
- Love and Time 51
- The Royal Cottager 52
- Poll of Preſtbury 53
- The Rationals 54
[] A CHOICE COLLECTION OF FAVOURITE SONGS.
I WISH YOU AN HAPPY NEW YEAR.
JOHN ENGLISH, who often would ſpeak without thought,
Not having the judgment to think as he ought,
From cuſtom, let danger be ever ſo near,
Wou'd annually wiſh you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Should our coaſt be in danger, and people afraid,
Leſt the French, or the Dutch, ſhould our country invade;
Give John but his Pipe, and his good Chriſtmas cheer,
He'll greet all his friends WITH AN HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Some people call Johnny a national hack,
He bears ſuch a national load on his back,
Should trade become dull, and ſhould dockets appear,
Yet Johnny ſhall wiſh you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Should Monopoly threaten, or Famine ſurround,
And nothing about us but miſery found,
When at every dwelling long faces appear,
Kind Johnny ſhall wiſh you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
[6]
Without knowing the fate of the following day,
Or what heavy demands without money to pay,
Tho' the weather be bad, or proviſions be dear,
Yet Johnny ſhall wiſh you A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
'Tis a wiſh that our anceſtors us'd to beſtow,
In the good times of old we all very well know,
But thoſe times are over, all wiſe people fear,
Who laugh when you talk of A HAPPY NEW YEAR!
THE LOYAL TAR.
'SDEATH what a fuſs land-lubbers make
About their rights and laws,
As if in doubt what part to take,
And jar, as 'twere, for ſtraws;—
If they wou'd do the thing that's right,
Or ceaſe prevarication,
Like loyal tars they wou'd unite,
To ſave this envy'd nation.
Much talking argues little good,
For many do remark,
That our has not the trueſt blood,
Which is too apt to bark.
True courage ne'er delights in noiſe;
But when there is occaſion,
The loyal tar each nerve employs
To ſave his envy'd nation.
Let Frenchmen ſay whate'er they will,
And paſs ſuch mad decrees,
That each a brother's blood ſhall ſpill,
Or father's if they pleaſe;
We are not quite ſo ſavage grown,
To ape ſo ſtrange a faſhion,
Each loyal tar will guard the crown,
His king, his friend, and nation!
THE MASON'S ALLEGORY.
[7]THE trade of a Maſon's a good moral ſchool,
Where the meaſures of life are eſtabliſh'd by rule,
When affairs go awry let your judgment incline,
To make matters even by drawing the line.
Shou'd your paths, being crooked, bewilder the mind,
Or, encircl'd by care, no alternative find,
Ne'er let your guide, Reaſon, give way to deſpair,
Old Time, with exertion, your troubles may ſquare.
Shou'd you meet with a brother in craft too profound,
Make uſe of your plummet, his ſubtilty ſound,
And if you no bottom ſhould find in his heart,
When his hand he preſents you, then bid him depart.
Let your converſe be level, your life not too gay,
But juſt within compaſs the moderate way;
When you're crippl'd by age, infirm and oppreſs'd,
Let Faith lend a pillar on which you may reſt.
THE SOLDIER'S RESOLUTION.
SEE the night's ta'en its leave, the ſtreamers of day,
Begin from the eaſtward to dart,
The ravilia beats, and I'm ſummon'd away,
'Tis hard my dear Betſey to part,
It is not the foe in the field that I dread,
Nor the point of the glittering ſteel,
It is not the whiſtling bullet of lead,
'Tis parting with thee that I feel.
I muſt not indulge in the thought of my dear,
The buſtle of war is around,
The bellowing trumpet blows loud in the ear,
My ſpirits ſtart up at the ſound.
[8]
I'll fight for my king as a ſoldier ſhould fight,
Yet were I to 'ſcape with my life,
When the wars are all o'er, 'twou'd be my delight,
To make my dear Betſey my wife.
THE DISCONSOLATE SAILOR.
WHEN my money was gone that I gain'd in the wars,
And the world 'gan to frown at my fate,
What matter'd my zeal or my honoured ſcars
When indifference ſtood at each gate.
The face that would ſmile when my purſe was well lin'd,
Shew'd a different aſpect to me,
And when I could nought but ingratitude find,
I hi'd once again to the ſea.
I thought it unwiſe to repine at my lot,
To bear with cold looks on the ſhore,
So I pack'd up the trifling remnants I'd got,
And a trifle, alas! was my ſtore.
A handkerchief held all the treaſure I had,
Which over my ſhoulder I threw,
Away then I trudg'd, with a heart rather ſad,
To join with ſome jolly ſhip's crew.
The ſea was leſs troubl'd, by far, than my mind,
For when the wide main I ſurvey'd,
I could not help thinking the world was unkind,
And fortune a ſlipp'ry jade.
And I vow'd, if once more I could take her in tow,
I'd let the ungrateful ones ſee,
That the turbulent winds, and the billows could ſhew
More kindneſs than they did to me.
THE DISCONSOLATE SAILOR'S RETURN.
[9]ONCE more I return'd to my own native ſhore,
Which I left ſo dejected, ſo heartleſs and poor,
Each face look'd indignant and ſhy;
I ſought for relief on the perilous main,
And, Fortune, ſhe cheer'd my poor heart once again,
While I brav'd the caprice of the ſky.
Tho' death ſeem'd impatiently waiting around,
With ſharp-pointed lightning and thunder profound,
Or roar'd in the turbulent wind,
When a calm has return'd, I've ſaid to each mate,
Tho' the heavens have frown'd, there's nothing I hate.
So much as the frowns of mankind.
I had not forgot how my heart was oppreſs'd,
And ſlighted by thoſe, whom I'd often careſs'd,
And parted my penny ſo free;
But if ever dame Fortune ſhou'd leave me again.
No more ſhall ingratitude give me a pain,
I'll ſeek for reſource on the ſea.
MARY OF THE TYNE.
WHAT pleaſure oft' 'tis to reveal,
The pain or pleaſure that we feel;
'Tis bliſs, while either we impart
Unto a ſympathetic heart;—
Juſt like that ſweet heart of thine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne.
I loſe, when near thee, all my care,
When from thee, I am all deſpair;
My boſom heaves with anxious pain,
Until I meet with thee again;
What are the adverſe pangs of mine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
[10]
Say is it from thy beauteous face,
Or is it from thy natural grace,
Or is it thy angelic mind,
Or is it ev'ry one combin'd,
Making one ſweet form divine,
My lovely Mary of the Tyne?
Shou'd it be love, thou'lt ſure forgive,
That is the food on which I live;
But if thou ſhou'dſt that bliſs deny,
Then muſt thy faithful lover die;
Or linger out his life and pine,
For lovely Mary of the Tyne.
THE MAID OF THE ROCK.
I SAT out one eve, with intention to roam,
To the Rock, where the ſurges wantonly play,
When the owl had ſtol'n out from his ſecret home,
And bright-veſted Heſperus clos'd in the day.
The moon was at full, and with dignity roſe,
And tiſſu'd with ſilver the green-mantl'd ſeas,
The God of the ocean was gone to repoſe,
And Aeolus fann'd with a whiſpering breeze.
On reaching the cave where old legends report,
And many a ſorrowful tale has been ſung,
Where blood-hunting robbers have oft held their court,
On each ſide was ſome veſtige of chivalry hung;
My eyes were alarm'd on beholding a maid,
Who, near to the cavern, ſat ſilent in grief,
Her head on her hand all in ſorrow was laid,
A hard rocky pillow was all her relief.
She ſtarted with fear, and ſhe fain would have fled,
I begg'd her to ſtay and her ſorrows relate,
Then told her, from me, ſhe had nothing to dread,
That I was ſent there by the order of fate,—
[11]You came by the order of one, ſhe reply'd,
Who has done all ſhe can to diſtract my poor mind,
O'er-whelm'd in the deep, my dear William, my pride,
Then ſunk, and ſhe gave her laſt breath to the wind!
THE AFFECTIONATE SOLDIER.
'TWAS in the ev'ning of a wint'ry day,
When ſafe returning from a long campaign,
Allen o'er-toil'd and weary with the way,
Came home to ſee his Sally once again.
His batter'd arms he careleſsly threw down,
And view'd his Sally with enraptur'd eyes,
But ſhe receiv'd him with a modeſt frown,
She knew not Allen in his rough diſguiſe.
His hair was knotted, and his beard unſhorn,
His tatter'd 'coutrements about him hung;
A tear of pleaſure did each cheek adorn,
And bleſſings fell in torrents from his tongue.
Am I ſo alter'd by this cruel trade,
That you your faithful Allen have forgot?
Or is your heart unto another ſtray'd?
Ah!—why eſcap'd I from the murd'ring ſhot?
When thus he ſpake, her wonted colour fled,
She ran and ſunk upon her Allen's breaſt,
All pale, awhile, ſhe look'd like one that's dead,
He kiſs'd, ſhe breath'd, and all her love confeſs'd.
Yes, my delight—tho' alter'd as thou art,
Reduc'd by honeſt courage to this ſtate,
Thou art the golden treaſure of my heart,
My long-loſt huſband and my wiſh'd-for mate!
SEQUEL TO POLL OF PLYMOUTH.
[12]WHEN Edward firſt heard Poll of Plymouth was dead,
The functions of life made a pauſe,
His piteous eyes ſtood aghaſt in his head,
His ſhip-mates enquir'd the cauſe;
Reviving awhile, he addreſs'd them around,
His hand cloſely preſs'd on his heart,
Within this ſad letter at once I have found,
The ſpectre of death and his dart.
It tells that my dear Poll of Plymouth is dead,
My comfort, my joy, and my wife,
When I was torn from her, ſhe flew to her bed,
And ſighing, reſign'd her dear life.
He fancy'd he ſaw his dear Poll in the clouds;
Ah, ſtay for poor Edward he cries,
Then, ſwift as his fancy, he ran up the ſhrouds,
And eagerneſs flaſh'd in his eyes.
He call'd for all hands, and he gave a loud ſhriek,
And now all diſtracted he raves;
Said, do you not ſee that my heart's ſprung a leak,
Then threw himſelf into the waves.
All hands were employ'd to prevent his ſad fate,
And the long-boat was put out in vain,
That drags him aboard, but, alas, 'twas too late,
For he never once breathed again!
THE SHIPWRECKED BOY.
'TWAS near a rock, within a bay,
Where many a ſhatter'd veſſel rides,
An ample cottage ſhelter'd lay,
Which overlook'd the ebbing tides;
[13]Its calm inhabitants would view
The ocean ſtruggling with the ſky,
When e'er the northern tempeſts blew,
Or when each wave ran mountains high.
Once at the cloſing of a day,
When angry Boreas in his rage,
Had clear'd the dark'ning clouds away,
Which caus'd a thund'ring war to wage;
A ſhip-wreck'd ſea-boy, pale and ſpent
With buffeting the threat'ning waves,
Straight to the peaceful cottage went,
And, bending low, for ſuccour craves.
He told his tale with feeble voice,
For he'd a heart that could not feign;
The liſt'ning hearers all rejoice,
That he was ſafe on land again.
The parents and the children ſtrove,
Who now ſhould firſt his wants ſupply,
While pity caus'd each heart to move,
And ſympathy fill'd ev'ry eye.
The can was fill'd, the fire was made,
To cheer and dry their drenched gueſt,
For each brought ſomething to his aid,
And anxiouſly the boy careſſ'd;
At length reviv'd, expreſs'd his mind,
And ſhew'd his gratitude ſo plain,
Forgot the thunder and the wind,
Reſolv'd to try the ſea again.
THE SHIPWRECKED BOY AT HOME.
THE goddeſs of war threw her ſpear on the ground,
And Peace wav'd her olive-branch gracefully round,
A ſtillneſs now reign'd o'er the wide-ſpreading main,
The Syrens began a melodious ſtrain;
[14]The ſhip-wrecked ſea-boy his troubles forgot,
The yawn of the waves and the whiſtling ſhot,
His dear native home ſtrongly preſs'd on his mind,
His parents and ſiſters ſo loving and kind.
He hurry'd faſt on with his heart all elate,
To embrace them around, and his ſtory relate,
His hard-earned wages he long'd to divide,
'Mongſt thoſe that he lov'd near his own fire-ſide;
But when he arriv'd, ſay what pen can expreſs
The genial delight, the joy in exceſs;
So welcome at home was this brave little gueſt,
You'd have thought that their welcoming ne'er would have ceas'd.
He hail'd 'em around, and he ſmiled with glee,
Cry'd, hold out your hands, take this preſent from me;
A fine ſilken 'kerchief, each neck to enfold,
But gave to his parents a purſe full of gold;
The fidler was ſent for that liv'd on the green,
Such dancing and romping ſure never was ſeen;
They gambol'd, 'till Phoebus peep'd over the ſhed,
Then kiſſing, and bleſſing, went peaceful to bed.
THE FURLOUGHED SOLDIER.
AS I've plodded my way to ſome far country town,
Full many a weariſome day,
My purſe has contain'd but a ſcanty half-crown,
And that has ſoon melted away.
Oft weary and ſad, in ſome wint'ry road,
With rain I've been wet to the ſkin,
Of my knap-ſack grown tir'd, I've ſought for abode,
At ſome friendly good ale-houſe or inn.
I've hop'd that good fortune on turning her wheel
Wou'd caſt me perchance on the place,
Where the wound in my boſom would inſtantly heal,
At the ſight of my Sally's dear face.
[15]
She grieves; for ſhe knows how I'm deſtin'd to roam,
On the ſtrength of my furlough to reſt,
And then ſhe oft wiſhes her Allen at home,
To bury his cares in her breaſt.
ON YONDER STILE.
A DUET.
ON yonder ſtile, let's ſit awhile,
To hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up ſoon,
And ſilver o'er the vale;
Ah, did you know the pangs I feel,
I can no longer now conceal,
The tender tale I muſt reveal,
On yonder ſtile let's ſit awhile
To hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up ſoon,
And ſilver o'er the vale.
The golden ſun his race has run,
The linnet ſeeks her neſt,
The ſhepherd's care, all folded are,
While he plods home to reſt;
Then let us Phoebe [William] onward move
Unto the ſtreamlet near the grove,
And while I whiſper o'er my love,
On yonder ſtile let's ſit awhile,
And hear the nightingale,
The lazy moon, will get up ſoon,
And ſilver o'er the vale.
ALLEN BROOKE OF WINDERMERE.
SAY have you in the village ſeen,
A lovely youth of penſive mein,
[16]If ſuch a one hath paſſed by,
With melancholy in his eye,
Where is he gone, ah, tell me where?
'Tis Allen Brooke of Windermere.
Laſt night he ſighing took his leave,
Which caus'd me all the night to grieve,
And many maids I know there be,
Who try to wean my love from me;
But heaven knows my heart's ſincere
To Allen Brooke of Windermere.
My throbbing breaſt is full of woe,
To think that he ſhould ſerve me ſo,
But if my love ſhould anger'd be,
And try to hide himſelf from me,
Then death ſhall bear me on a bier,
To Allen Brooke of Windermere!
LOVE WITHOUT RETURN.
WHERE are thoſe hours fled
That us'd to yield delight,
My days with pleaſure ſped,
And ſweet repoſe at night;
Within the ſhaded cot,
Which ſtands on yonder lea,
It was, alas, my lot
My Mary firſt to ſee.
Ah, were her love like mine,
How happy had I been,
Crown'd with ſuch bliſs divine,
While Mary reign'd my queen;
But ſhe increas'd my woe,
While at her feet I ſigh'd,
Diſdain ſat on her brow,
Which all my love defy'd.
[17]
If beauty makes her vain,
My Mary ſure is wrong,
For, ah, who can retain,
Or boaſt of beauty long?
My love is ſo ſincere,
Should time her charms diſguiſe,
I'd love my Mary, dear,
'Till death enclos'd my eyes.
THE VALETUDINARIAN.
YE that groan beneath the weight
Of diſſipation, pride, or ſtate,
Condemn'd to walk through life's parade,
At rout, or drum, or maſquerade,
Ye that fain would pleaſure find,
Led by Fortune, ever blind,
Come and ſit along with me,
Come and taſte tranquility.
Or if chac'd by ſallow care,
Would you ſhun the hag Deſpair?
Would you chearful health reſtore,
When advice can do no more?
Seek the freſh reviving breeze,
Or the fanning of the trees,
Come and ſit along with me,
Come and taſte tranquility.
Ye that feel the pangs of love,
Come and murmer with the dove;
Shun the falſe ungrateful maid;
Seek the ſweet ſequeſter'd ſhade;
Let her ne'er behold thy grief,
Time, ere long, will bring relief;
Come and ſit along with me,
Come and taſte tranquility.
[18]
Ye that languiſh to regain
A breaking heart, or racking brain;
Driv'n by fortune or by fate
To a wild and frantic ſtate;
Or mopeing wander like a loon,
Dreading oft the wayward moon,
Come and ſit along with me,
Come and taſte tranquility.
THE DROOPING ROSE.
GO, drooping Roſe, by heat oppreſs'd,
Go, and revive on Mary's breaſt,
Her breaſt benign, doth all excel,
Go there my Roſe, go there and dwell.
Not in the vale, nor on the hill,
Where ſummer gales their honey ſpill,
Not Flora's temples, when ſhe's dreſt,
Are half ſo fair as Mary's breaſt.
Were I to live 'till I be old,
And pinch'd by keen December's cold,
I ſhould revive, were I to reſt
My aged head on Mary's breaſt.
THE SAILOR'S ALLEGORY.
LIFE's like a ſhip in conſtant motion,
Sometimes high and ſometimes low,
Where ev'ry one muſt brave the ocean,
Whatſoever wind may blow;
If unaſſail [...]d by ſquall or ſhower,
Wafted by the gentle gales,
Let's not loſe the fav'ring hour,
While ſucceſs attends the ſails.
[19]
Or if the wayward winds ſhou'd bluſter,
Let us not give way to fear,
But let us all our patience muſter,
And learn from reaſon how to ſteer;
Let judgment keep you ever ſteady,
'Tis a ballaſt never fails,
Should dangers riſe, be ever ſteady,
To manage well the ſwelling ſails.
Truſt not too much your own opinion,
While your veſſel's under way,
Let good example bear dominion,
That's a compaſs will not ſtray.
When thund'ring tempeſts make you ſhudder,
And Boreas on the ſurface rails,
Let good diſcretion guide the rudder,
And Providence attend the ſails.
Then when you're ſafe from dangers riding,
In ſome welcome port or bay,
Hope, be the anchor you confide in,
And Care, awhile, enſlumber'd lay;
Or when each can's with liquor flowing,
And good fellowſhip prevails,
Let each true heart, with rapture glowing,
Drink ſucceſs unto our ſails.
STRANGERS AT HOME.
NOW we've drank to the king, to our laſſes and friends,
And the Muſes appear as the liquor aſcends,
Setting Fancy a-wing, or on tip-toe to roam,
For a ſong or a catch to make Strangers at home.
May the man be deſpis'd, of whatever degree,
Who has wealth without feeling to make a friend free,
May his wife, night and morning, his caput well comb,
Who's in want of a heart to make Strangers at home.
[20]
Or the boor that will frown, when an alien appears,
Whoſe heart fills his boſom with national fears,
That encloſes his door, if from Paris or Rome,
Some poor ſtranger might knock who's in want of a home.
Or when merit appears in her ſcanty attire,
That may want a good meal, or the warmth of a fire;
May the wretch that denies her, ne'er enter this dome,
To chill the warm hearts of us Strangers at home.
And may he that's a ſtranger to friendſhip and love,
Be deny'd all thoſe bleſſings we hope for above,
May his mind be perplex'd by ſome ſpell-ſetting gnome,
Who cannot, as we do, make Strangers at home.
Let us join all our hands with a bountiful mind,
And each to his neighbour, be cordial and kind;
May the ſpirit of light, when we're rais'd from the tomb,
Give us all a free welcome—as Strangers at home!
HOLD YOUR JAW.
ACIT much diſtreſs'd,
A ſtateſman addreſs'd,
Reſpecting the ſilencing law,
The ſtateſman reply'd,
But ſpoke it aſide,
The meaning is—hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
In forming a mob
To plunder or rob,
Or ſeize an old friend by the craw,
This law points the way
To Botany Bay,
Then, prithee man, hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
[21]
Old Gallica ſat,
As ſnug as a rat,
Conceal'd in a bundle of ſtraw;
Would have eat all our fat,
Had not ſly puſſy cat,
Cry'd, ſirrah, pray hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
To judge matters right,
Requires good ſight,
Or wou'd you the proper line draw,
Pray run not your rig,
On Tory or Whig,
But prudently hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
Let each haſty ſoul,
His paſſion control,
Remember wiſe Solomon's ſaw;
In venting your ſpite,
You'll get nothing by't,
'Twere better to hold your Jaw.
Hold your Jaw, &c. &c.
May each gallant crop,
Who's head's like a mop,
With care keep his eye on his taw.
For ſhou'd his long tongue
Cauſe him to be hung,
He'd certainly hold his Jaw.
Hold his Jaw, &c. &c.
A MONSTROUS GOOD SONG.
YE poets employ all the force of your lays,
To ſuppreſs all the ills of theſe troubleſome days,
[22]When Juſtice ſits blind-folded, crippl'd and lame,
Say, do you not think it a monſtrous ſhame?
In talking of Monſters, it puts one in mind,
Of the numbers we have, who all differ in kind;
Yet each is permitted to play a foul game,
Say, do you not think it a monſtrous ſhame?
The great men who're deep in the nation's affairs,
Oft play up old Nick, with the Bulls and the Bears,
With a hum, all Change Alley they ſet in a flame,
Say, do you not think it a monſtrous ſhame?
The Lawyer's ſo deep in his logical ſkill,
He's ſure to entangle you, do what you will,
Shou'd he fail or ſucceed in your cauſe, 'tis the ſame,
Say, do you not think it a monſtrous ſhame?
The Methodiſt drives on a monſtrous trade,
By ſetting up ſcare-crows to make us afraid,
Till kicking in fits you ſee many a Dame,
Say, do you not think it a monſtrous ſhame?
Say, is't not the very worſt ſpecies of vice,
That the comforts of life are ſo high in their price;
That knaves, by colluſion, ſhou'd play us this game,
I ſwear and proteſt, 'tis a monſtrous ſhame?
Sure every good man muſt ſee with much pain,
That the Monſter MONOPOLY's, ſuffer'd to reign,
But ſhou'd he reign long, ev'ry mortal's to blame,
And if he's not hang'—'tis a monſtrous ſhame!
The report of each day which is bawl'd in our ears,
Is a monſter, which often is made by our fears;
Report tells us fibs, ſome dark purpoſe to frame,
That the world will believe—is a monſtrous ſhame!
HE SAW I LOV'D.
[23]LOW in a vale, beneath a riſing hill,
Adown which hurries many a plaintive rill,
In ſoft accordance to the murm'ring dove,
That morn and evening tells his tale of love;
Or in the grove that hangs the brow beſide,
Sits neſtling near his faithful feather'd bride;—
'Twas there I firſt with faithleſs Edward ſtray'd,
'Twas there my eyes my fooliſh heart betray'd.
He ſaw I lov'd;—which if he had not ſeen,
He had not then ſo great a tyrant been,
Or o'er a heart, like mine, exulting ſhewn,
That he'd no love for me about his own;
Can I forget, while near the Medway's ſide,
How oft he call'd me his intended bride,
And charm'd me as we trod the banks along,
With ſome ſoft tale, or heart-bewitching ſong?
My ear was charm'd, I liſten'd and believ'd;
My love grew ſtronger as the youth deceiv'd;
Who could have thought that falſhood ever hung,
Mix'd with the love-like notes of Edward's tongue!
Ye banks of Medway, witneſs to his vows,
Ye willows too, that ſhaded us with boughs;
Ye tides that ſwell'd, and kiſs'd the meadow's brim,
As if you envy'd me each kiſs of him.
Come ſwell again, receiving while I weep
My briny tears, and mix them with the deep;
For Edward's vows are falſe as ſubtle ſands,
That many a fair and gallant veſſel ſtrands;
My Edward's falſe! and to ſome other ſtray'd,
And left me wreck'd beneath this willow ſhade;
Let me not live, to tyrant love, a ſlave,
Firſt let me periſh in this wat'ry grave!
THE CHICHESTER PACK.
AN HUNTING SONG.
[24]'TWAS ſix in the morn and the ſky wore a dapple-grey,
Cheerly the horn through the village reſounds,
Old Morpheus now took his leave of my bed,
And the vapours of ſlumber all haſtily fled,
Say, who would not riſe when the huntſman cries hark-away,
Sluggards to horſe and join the ſweet hounds.
Let urbanical prigs, grown feeble by revelling,
Come and behold of what pleaſure we taſte,
Each ſportſman mounts up on his ſteed with ſuch grace,
While health paints a ruddineſs over each face,
They all bid defiance to impotent drivelling,
Exerciſe makes the blood vivid and chaſte.
How pleaſant's the ſound when the huntſman is hollowing,
Near to the ſkirt of ſome echoing wood,
Each horſeman with eagerneſs joins in the cry,
And the glorious clamour reſounds to the ſky,
While ſtretch'd all along the poor victim lies wallowing,
Farmers with pleaſure exult in his blood.
WILLY OF THE WOODLAND SIDE.
SURE Willy will never return back again,
I've waited this hour or more;
Like the Linnet, alas, I am left to complain,
Which ſits on the whins of the moor.
My heart it will break with concern,
Unleſs my dear Willy return;
Some damſel has ſtole the dear heart of my ſwain,
And I ſhall ne'er ſee my ſweet Willy again.
[25]
The Thruſh and the Ouzel are now gone to reſt,
The Bat and the Owl are a-wing
The ſun hath this hour been ſunk in the weſt,
And the ſleep-lulling nightingales ſing,
How penſively paſſes the day,
Whenever my Willy's away,
Some damſel has ſtole the clear heart of my ſwain,
And I ſhall ne'er ſee my ſweet Willy again.
WILLIAM OF ALLERTON GREEN.
WITH a face full of grief, and a heart full of love,
Poor William of Allerton Green,
In the deepeſt receſs of a neighbouring grove,
By Robin, the woodman, was ſeen;
His looks were intent on a murmuring rill,
Which ran o'er the pebbles below,
The flood from his eyes ſerv'd the ſtreamlet to fill,
Which ſprang from the fountain of woe.
His Phaebe he'd miſs'd a whole night and a day,
They'd promis'd to meet at a wake;
He fear'd that ſome phantom had led her aſtray.
Which dances each night on the lake;
But Robin, the woodman, now langh'd in his ſleeve,
Who well knew the cauſe of his tears;
And, ſmiling, he ſaid I'll your ſorrows relieve,
And ſoon put an end to your fears.
'Tis true, the poor thing had miſtaken her way,
I met her with grief in each eye,
So, like a poor ſheep that was going aſtray,
She's pounded in ſafety hard by;
Being all over ſorrow, juſt like to yourſelf,
And making e'en juſt ſuch ado,
I thought her a fooliſh young ſimpering elf,
Becauſe ſhe was piping for you.
[26]
Young William jump'd up, all enraptur'd with joy,
Said, where is my deareſt delight?
Now Robin cry'd don't you be jealous my boy,
With me ſhe has hous'd all the night;
Between wife and myſelf we have kept her from harm,
And caution'd her never to roam,
You have nothing to do but to lend her your arm,
And ſee the dear creature ſafe home.
GIVE THE FRIENDLESS CHARITY.
EDWARD loves me, Clara cry'd,
But ſhe knew him full of pride;
In a beggar's habit dreſs'd,
Put his feelings to the teſt;
As he proudly paſſed by,
She entreated Charity.
With a high diſdainful look
He but little notice took,
Saying, do not trouble me,
I have nought to do with thee;
Still his Clara drew more nigh,
Crying, ſir, your Charity!
While ſhe ſpake, a gentle gale,
Blue aſide her humble veil,
And expos'd her lovely face,
When he ſlacken'd in his pace;
But ſhe ſtill, with down-caſt eye,
Cry'd, dear ſir, your Charity!
Soon as he her face beheld,
All the myſt'ry was reveal'd;
Saying, while he ſeiz'd her hand,
Liſten now to my demand;
While thus ſuppliant on my knee,
Give thy Edward Charity.
[27]
Beggar'd he muſt ever be,
Doom'd to endleſs miſery;
Clara, ſmiling, now reply'd,
Seeing ſhe had check'd his pride,
All your love, dear youth, give me,
Give the friendleſs Charity!
THE GALLANT LIEUTENANT.
PREPARE, prepare, we're hail'd on board,
'Tis fam'd Britannia gives the word;
See the gallic bird on high,
Turn, turn upon your enemy.
Be ſteady hearts, be firm and bold,
And fight as Briton's fought of old,
Then ſwiftly fly on eagle's wing,
To guard your country and your king.
The Lion roars within his den,
The ancient creſt of Engliſhmen,
Undaunted bid you meet the foe,
And lay their mighty vaunting low.
Be ſteady hearts, &c. &c.
Behold the fair Edina ſtand
Surrounded by her warlike band,
And ſee, ſhe draws the hoſtile blade,
To lend her neighbouring ſiſter aid.
Be ſteady hearts, &c. &c.
Ere yet the battle is begun,
Unite ye Britons, be as one,
Be firm, true hearted and ſincere,
And then, oh then, you've nought to fear.
Be ſteady hearts, &c. &c.
ELEANOR OF EXETER.
[28]AS wand'ring out one ſummer's morn,
Near Exon's peerleſs ſtream,
I ſought fair Eleanor forlorn,
And liſten'd to her theme.
My heart was ſoon a pris'ner made,
Enchanted were my eyes,
My ruddy cheeks began to fade,
My boſom heav'd with ſighs.
But when I heard her Edmund's name,
Repeated in each ſtrain,
My heart renew'd its wonted flame,
My cheeks they fluſh'd again.
The love which modeſty forbad,
That ſhe ſhould ſhew to me,
The doubts which often made me ſad,
Were chang'd to exſtacy!
I ran and knelt at Ellen's feet,
She trembl'd all with fear,
And tho' ſhe bid me oft retreat,
She did it with a tear.
I wip'd the precious gem away,
And told how much I lov'd;
Her eyes ſhot forth a vivid ray,
While ſhe that love approv'd.
Then ev'ry morn and ev'ry eve,
We paſs'd an hour divine,
Which caus'd full many a ſwain to grieve,
That Eleanor was mine.
When I from church, all trim and gay,
Led her acroſs the green,
Ev'ry ſwain would whiſp'ring ſay,
Would I'd ſo happy been.
EVERY MAN HIS MODE.
[29]SURE every man in his way is a prig,
From the cut of his coat, or the tie of his wig,
And moſt in ſome partial opinion is bleſs'd,
For every man thinks his own is the beſt.
The Coachman, tho' plain, is an abſolute fop,
With his ſhoulders well ſquar'd and his head like a mop,
Or his broad ſilver buttons, and tripple-cap'd coat,
And all the ſlang ſpeeches of Newgate by rote,
The Biſhop and Dean have a ſnug kind of cut,
With a ſolemn, a ſage, and monaſtical ſtrut,
The full-puffed ſleeve and the well-ſtarched band,
His wriſtbands like ſnow and a lilly-white hand.
The Judge is a fop, tho' he looks rather droll,
With his ſcarlet and fur, and his head like an owl;
And the Sergeant, as if through the Mohawks he'd bled,
Or had lately been ſcalp'd, by the patch on his head.
The Quaker's a very queer kind of a quiz,
His back ſo erect, and ſo prim in his phiz,
In ſuperfine cloth, tho' his coat be but plain,
Yet the Quaker's a coxcomb, a coxcomb in grain.
The Player's a prigſter of every kind,
Of every faſhion, of every mind,
Sometimes like a beggar, ſometimes like a king,
A tragical, comical, whimſical thing.
Since men about faſhion make ſuch a great pother,
And every prig will find fault with his brother,
Let each be indulg'd in his different way,
For Charmen can tell 'tis the whim of a day.
BACCHUS'S ADVICE; OR, THE GOOD EVENING.
[30]SINCE all are ſubject to vexation,
While in this ſtate of expectation,
For joy is oft alloy'd by ſorrow,
We laugh to-day, and cry to-morrow;
No more with worldly ſickneſs pine,
But let your regimen be wine.
Let us compound with Time for pleaſure,
Our days he gives in ſcanty meaſure;
Slowly, oft with grief he crambles,
Perplexing with his thorny brambles,
'Till Bacchus comes, and drives away,
The languid vapours of the day.
Or if you ſhould in love be pining,
And at your miſtreſs' window whining,
When ſhe's unheedful of your 'plaining,
When all your reſolution's waning,
Then take a goblet like to mine,
And bury all your love in wine.
While you are young be not too ſcanty,
When you are old, take bumpers plenty,
For when we ſlacken in our paces,
And care has wrinkl'd o'er our faces,
Wine makes young men often ſage,
And gives a vigour to old age.
Then let us laugh while we are living,
There's nothing ever got by grieving,
[31]And when the ſpirit leaves its priſon,
And to ſome better ſtate is riſen,
Good fellows ſhall in bumpers join,
And drink a long farewell in wine.
YE BLUSHING RAYS.
YE bluſhing rays of chearing light,
Come and diſpel the ſhades of night,
The envious night, which often tries
To keep enclos'd my Sarah's eyes.
Ah, gentle maid, tho' fair, be kind,
Come, and illume my penſive mind,
Darkſome appears the brightest place,
Whene'er compar'd to Sarah's face.
Diſcloſe thoſe eyes of ſapphire blue,
And brighter far than morning dew,
Awake! my Sarah, make me bleſs'd,
And eaſe thy Edward's throbbing breaſt.
THE NEGRO'S SOLILOQUY.
BY yon bright ſtreamers in the ſky,
Which glimmer on the ſea;
The chearing ſun approaches nigh,
Yet brings no hope to me.
The peaceful night yields me no reſt,
Which gives to others ſleep,
My heart it bleeds within my breaſt,
My eyes do nought but weep.
The toils, I cou'd endure of day,
Or ſpurn the tyrant's chain,
[32]But Norah's driven far away,
Which racks my tortur'd brain;
My wife is ſhe,—ah cruel heart,
That cou'd her heart oppreſs,
But 'tis alone the tyrant's part,
To triumph o'er diſtreſs.
Haſte, bleſſed tidings! haſte along,
From fair Britannia's iſle,
All, come and eaſe the anxious throng,
And make the ſlave to ſmile;
If then good hap, my Nora lives,
Theſe limbs ſhall ne'er have reſt,
Until we meet, oh, then I'll cleave,
Forever to her breaſt.
MY LITTLE BLITHSOME SPARROW.
WHY turns my Jen her head away,
My little blithſome ſparrow,
That us'd to wanton, ſmile, and play,
Upon the banks of Yarrow.
Sweet her breath, as primroſe pale,
Her waiſt, well ſhap'd, and narrow,
And with her ſmiles, ſhe chear'd the dale,
And crown'd, the banks of Yarrow.
Ah what is't makes my Jenny weep,
What makes her look aw ſorrow,
Say, has ſhe loſt ſome fav'rite ſheep,
That fed on bonny Yarrow?
Alas, alas, I ſadly fear,
The cauſe of aw this ſorrow,
She's ſeen ſome other ſwain more dear,
Upon the banks of Yarrow.
[33]
Ah, woe is me, ah, well a day!
I ſee what's caus'd this ſorrow,
I'll o'er the hills, and far away,
And think no more of Yarrow.
THE PIRATES.
TO the reſtleſs main, we'll bend our ſails,
A deſp'rate trade to try,
Nor dread the howling, northern gales,
Or low'ring of the ſky;
Since there's no living here on land,
Let's ſcow'r the bounteous ſea,
On merchant fair, or contraband,
We'll practice Piracy.
On ſhore ſome Pirates thieve apace,
From precept ev'ry day,
To plunder there is no diſgrace,
When once you've learnt the way;
Of tythes, the parſon, trims the farm,
Prompt by his rev'rend plea,
Then tell me lads, where is the harm;
In water Piracy.
Regraters and foreſtallers too,
Accumulate their ſtore,
The world muſt own this ſentence true,
They peculate the poor;
The lawyer, is a name I hate,
And all men will agree,
They often lop a man's eſtate,
What's that, but Piracy.
Then who'd be ſqueamiſh, ſince our lives
Are all we have to loſe,
Each man gets bolder as he thrives,
And wealth does bliſs diffuſe;
[34]The rogue that's rich ne'er cares a jot,
Shou'd he much cenſur'd be,
For 'tis, alas, each great man's lot
To practice Piracy.
CUPID'S ATTRIBUTES.
A GLEE.
TALK not of books, of dreſs, of riches,
Talk not of bacchanalian joy,
For beauty 'tis which moſt bewitches,
All Nature's govern'd by a boy.
At Cupid's touch, e'en hero's tremble,
To beauty, ſtoics oft ſubmit,
And nothing Clara can reſemble,
Which has not beauty, love and wit.
A CATCH,
Which may be read as the lines follow in the printing, or as they are numbered by figures.
1 WHAT makes a modern gentleman
10 The glory of the nation,
5 To be as ſimple as he can,
8 A coward in a paſſion.
7 To keep a wench and ſtarve a wife,
2 The Taylor and the Tonſor,
9 Damme, boys, but this is life,
4 To have a wife and ſconoe her.
11 The world muſt end as it began;
6 Say, is it not the faſhion,
3 Wed firſt, then wench, that is the plan,
12 A world of innovation.
THE PRETTY MAID OF CHELMSFORD.
A TRUE STORY.
[35]A Pretty maid, both kind and fair,
Dwell'd in Chelmsford town,
Her pleaſing ſmiles, her eaſy air,
Engag'd both fop and clown.
Being accoſted t'other day,
By a clumſy 'ſquire,
Who aſk'd her if ſhe knew the way
To quench a raging fire.
Pure water, ſir, reply'd the maid,
Will quench it in a trice,
O no, ſaid he, you little jade,
You give ſuch cold advice.
Why then, ſaid ſhe, 'tis paſt my ſkill,
To tell you what will do;
I'm ſure, ſaid he, you know what will;
There's nothing can but you.
Alas-a-day what do you mean,
Reply'd the pretty fair;
'Tis like a coward to complain,
Yo never ſhou'd deſpair.
Deſpair I cannot, cry'd the 'ſquire,
While you are in my ſight,
'Tis you muſt quench the burning fire,
You ſet it firſt alight.
Then ſtraight he claſp'd her round the waiſt,
And forc'd from her a kiſs;
Ho! ho! ſaid ſhe, is that your taſte;
Then pray you, ſir, take this:
[36]
And with a pail, plac'd at the door,
She ſluic'd the amorous 'ſquire;
You're welcome, ſir, to this and more,
To quench your raging fire.
PLEASURE'S IN THE VALE.
WHILE giddy pride, from day to day,
In queſt of pleaſure flies,
She often turns her head away,
Or dazzles with her eyes;
Or ſometimes in the ſplendid throng,
Where courtly forms appear,
She's oft purſu'd the whole night long,
But Pleaſure's ſeldom there.
Say, wou'd you know then, where to find,
The fair capricious maid;
She reſts within the humble mind,
The cottage, or the ſhade:
Or where you hear the nightingale,
Sequeſter'd, near ſome brook;
While Cynthia, lights the ſilent vale,
There, there for Pleaſure look.
THE POST BOY.
I'M a Hounſlow young lad, and Tidy's my name,
Full many a job have I drove,
Yet never croſs'd nag that was windgall'd or lame,
But always had ſuch as would move.
A tight pair of buckſkins and boots jetty black,
My ſpurs, ever poliſh'd and ſmart,
A trim little jacket to put on my back,
Was always the pride of my heart.
[37]
A good ten miles an hour, in common my pace,
When leaving behind ev'ry rip,
They try to put by, but I lead them a chaſe,
And tip 'em the ſmack of the whip;
When oft as I'm driving along in this ſtile,
Thro' many a town as I go,
The girls of each inn, will beſtow me a ſmile,
Their meaning I very well know.
Then I find 'em agig whenever I call,
And loll at my eaſe on return,
I laugh, and I jeer, and I talk with 'em all,
But Patty's ray only concern;
At an inn near to Windſor, this little rogue dwells,
Well known by her nice winning air,
That all other girls, of the place, ſhe excels,
And is call'd pretty Patty the Fair.
We have both made a vow, ſhould we get the ſtuff,
To marry, and ſo become one;
As others have done, for 'tis common enough,
We'll ſet up an inn of our own;
Then ſhe'll be call'd madam, and I'll be call'd ſir,
We'll ſtick up the ſign of the ſtar,
'Mongſt poſt boys, and waiters, I'll buſtle and ſtir,
While Pat hollows loud in the bar.
CELIA.
A SYMBOLICAL SONG.
OFT have I ſeen at early morn,
All tempting to the view,
A roſe-bud on ſome lofty thorn
Adorn'd with glitt'ring dew.
[38]
A ſymbol 'twas of that dear fair,
Whoſe beauties rank'd ſo high;
From mortal reach, 'twas planted there,
To bluſh, to charm and die.
Yet, Celia, wer't thou fix'd ſo near,
With ev'ry peril round;
And ſhould the thorny buſhes tear,
I'd triumph in each wound:
To climb for thee, no pains I'd dread,
Regardleſs bear the ſmart,
Nor dread what blood of mine I ſhed,
To get at Celia's heart.
THE MAIDEN'S RESOLUTION.
I'LL henceforth bear without a ſigh,
All the ſecret pangs that grieve me,
No more on love will I rely,
He ſmiles on purpoſe to deceive me.
My Henry vow'd a thouſand times,
He would never, never leave me,
The ſtrain of love was in his rhimes,
But, ah, he wrote 'em to deceive me.
He came at eve, he came at morn,
And begg'd I would of doubts bereave me,
Yet now he's left me all forlorn,
It was his paſtime to deceive me.
The world, thank heaven's fair and wide,
Time and abſence ſhall relieve me,
I'll now aſſume a maiden's pride,
Henry ſhall no more deceive me!
PEG OF THE MOOR.
[39]YOUNG Will of the brook did fair Peggy adore,
Who liv'd on the ſkirts of old Bawtery Moor,
'Till once, at a wake, Will was ſadly in fear,
For ſhe nodded at Tom, and at Robin would leer,
He ſaid ſhe was falſe, and he bitterly ſwore,
That he'd ſtraight take his leave of Fair Peg of the Moor.
She laugh'd and ſhe jeer'd him for what he had ſpoke,
And thought all his ſaying was nought but a joke;
So kept up the frolic, her lover to teaze,
Until he grew frantic, almoſt, by degrees:
She meant to have heal'd, but ſhe open'd the ſore,
Which caus'd him to fly from Fair Peg of the Moor.
A drum and a fife, roar'd aloud in his ears,
And forth from the throng a gay ſerjeant appears,
Will vow'd for a ſoldier, he'd inſtantly go,
And ſo put an end to his love-kindl'd woe;
Reſolv'd to take leave of the maid evermore,
And ne'er again think of Fair Peg of the Moor.
To the ſerjeant he went, and he told him his mind,
The ſerjeant was pleas'd and he ſpoke him ſo kind,
But while he was 'bout with the wag to enliſt,
Poor Peggy came kneeling, and begg'd he'd deſiſt,
Ah! will you, ſaid ſhe, leave the laſs you adore,
Come, come, and enliſt with your Peg of the Moor.
His boſom, which late with reſentment was fill'd,
Relax'd of its heat, and his heart 'gan to yield,
He lifted her up, and he kiſs'd her with glee,
Said, ſince you ſeem fearful of parting with me,
Let the drummer beat up in the morn, at my door,
And tell that I'm liſted to Peg of the Moor.
[...]
[39] [...]
[40]THE GOLDEN EAR-RING, OR, AUTUMNAL LEAF.
GO to the glaſs, dear Bella, go,
And ſee what morals you ſuſtain,
Can faſhion ſhield the heart from woe,
Or palliate a growing pain.
While pendant, hanging on the ear,
The golden bauble charms the eye,
An emblem of the waneing year,
Say, who can tell the year we die.
A trifle ſometimes yields relief,
But ſhou'd reflection chance to riſe,
We ſhudder at the yellow leaf,
And fall, to Time, a ſacrifice.
THE GOOD MERRY FELLOWS ALL UNDER THE HOLLY.
Written for the Green-Holly Society under one of thoſe trees, while in the Vale of Clnyde, in North Wales.
LET ne'er a face be melancholy
While underneath this verdant Holly,
We muſt laugh while we can,
Since life's but a ſpan,
And to yield to old Care's a folly.
To repine at one's fate is treaſon,
Since fate has furniſh'd us with reaſon,
Let us ever be ſeen,
Like this gay ever-green,
In good health throughout the ſeaſon.
[41]
When you're warm in converſation,
'Twere beſt avoid prevarication,
And when matters grow wrong,
Let's ſtrike up a ſong,
And drink to each kind relation.
When age with wrinkl'd brow approaches,
And hoary Time on ſtrength encroaches,
May each wint'ry day,
Like the Holly look gay,
And our end be without reproaches.
EDWARD AND EDITHA.
WHEN fair Editha, with young Edward ſate,
Upon a cliff, that overlook'd the main,
As if intended by ſome wayward fate,
A ſudden tempeſt roſe, of wind and rain,
Which from the dreadful height with fury caſt,
The beauteous maid adown the frightful ſteep,
Into the green and wide expanded waſte,
With Thetis, there, for ever more to ſleep;
A maniac wild, diſtracted, Edward fled,
To all he met, this piteous burthen ſaid,
Say have you ſeen, where e'er you've been,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
Oft o'er the deſert wild, he'd thoughtleſs roam,
Or where the gloom, by cluſt'ring limes is made;
And there, bewilder'd, make a tranſient home,
Or hold vague converſe with Editha's ſhade;
And now he'd ſally forth, by frenzy led,
Or from his cell, ruſh with an hideous ſcream;
Then tear the beauteous ringlets from his head,
And ſeek the margin of ſome mournful ſtream:
[42]His eyes expreſs'd the tempeſt in his brain,
And thus he ſung, in ſlow and penſive ſtrain,
Ye Willows green, ſay, have ye ſeen,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
Once, where the hurrying torrent ruſhes down,
With thund'ring roar, upon the gulph below;
While peering rocks, above the brambles frown,
Like ſtately monarchs, with imperious brow;
There, while poor Edward ſate in abject mood,
He thought Editha lav'd upon each wave;
Then brav'd the deepeſt current of the flood,
And dy'd, like her, within a wat'ry grave.
But ere he ſunk beneath the ruthleſs tide,
Around he look'd, and thus he fainting cry'd,
Ye Willows green, ſay, have ye ſeen,
Editha dear! my Fairy Queen.
THE LOAVES AND THE FISHES.
THE Cooks of our councils great plenty provide,
They furniſh the tables and then they divide,
But if you would know what their fav'rite diſh is,
'Tis the old-faſhion'd food, call'd the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
Then round about, round about, round about reel,
Since ſome have but little and ſome a great deal.
Each Patriot prates loud of his country's good,
And ſwears that for charters he'd ſpill his dear blood;
He may talk of his zeal, but his principle wiſh is,
To come in at laſt for the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
[43]
When a Poor Man is hung'ry he'll make a long face,
And ſhould he want fiſh-meat, then give him a place,
Let Neptune and Ceres provide to his wiſhes,
The old-faſhion'd food call'd the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
The Biſhop oft prays he tranſlated might be,
Or that chance would preſent him a much better See,
If a brother ſhould die, the prelate's good wiſh is,
That heaven would ſend him the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
And ſuch is the eaſe with the kites of the law,
When they get a poor client once into their claw,
Should a Judge ſlip his wind, the firſt legal wiſh is,
That they may be bench'd near the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
The great men in place are for raiſing the crown,
And thoſe that are out, are for pulling it down,
The party on both ſides have ſelf in their wiſhes,
And all things give way to the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
—Then round about, &c.
May heaven ſoon grant that we all have a meal,
Save thoſe who pretend that they're chuck full of zeal,
For thoſe who are full, muſt relinquiſh their wiſhes,
When they cannot make room for the Loaves and the Fiſhes.
CHORUS.
Then round about, round about, round about reel,
Since ſome have but little and ſome a great deal.
SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
[44]WHEN hoary froſt hung on each thorn,
Ere night had well withdrawn her gloom,
Poor Phoebe went one wint'ry morn,
From Colnbrook-down to Langly-broom:
When from the brake, or from the rill,
Half clad, and with neglected treſſes,
Her ruſhy baſket try'd to fill,
With freſh and green SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
Yet many a chearful ſtrain ſhe'd ſing,
While wading thro' the chilling ſtream;
Her thoughtleſs ſpirits were a wing,
With love, or with ſome jocund theme;
Then with her humble merchandize,
In hopes to conquer her diſtreſſes;
Away to London next ſhe hies,
And cries her YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
Thro' many an alley, lane, or ſtreet,
Ere luxury has left her bed;
You're ſure poor Phoebe next to meet,
Trying to get her daily bread:
The wind and rain ſhe oft defies,
When e'er her purſe ſome mite poſſeſſes;
With chearful voice ſhe daily cries,
Come buy my YOUNG SPRING-WATER CRESSES.
PITY KINDLED INTO LOVE.
IN ſpite of what my tongue can ſay,
Celia's deaf to all perſuaſion;
Cold ſeems her heart as earthly clay,
When love's my theme, ſhe's all evaſion;
[45]Why did the gods impreſs my mind,
Or raiſe ſuch ardour in my breaſt;
And yet the fair be ſo unkind,
To triumph o'er a heart diſtreſs'd.
Say, why thou cherub-dimpl'd boy,
Haſt thou fetter'd my affection,
Or why, with frowns my peace deſtroy,
And leave me wilder'd by diſtraction?
Ah! wou'd you Celia, were I laid,
Quite breathleſs in the ſilent grave,
Wou'd you not then, dear cruel maid,
In pity once your boſom heave?
Fair Celia liſten'd to his ſtrain,
With a heart-felt ſtrange obtruſion,
When Pity rais'd a gentle flame,
Which kindl'd into ſoft deluſion;
Love fann'd the blaze with magic breath,
And made her own the genial heat,
No more, no more dear youth of death,
Or vainly kneel at Celia's feet.
The nymph theſe words ſo ſweetly ſaid,
Strephon was with joy confounded,
Quickly he rear'd his drooping head,
And like the hart elate he bounded;
He ſeiz'd her hand, and bleſs'd her tongue.
And ſmil'd with joy at her decree,
Said, through the plains let it be ſung,
That Celia owns her love for me.
WHAT IS LIBERTY?
[46]OLD Johnny Bull the other day,
Came to me acroſs the way,
Said neighbour tell me, tell me pray,
What is Liberty?
I, inſtantly reply'd, ſir,
'Tis ruſhing like a tide, ſir,
Good order to deride, ſir,
That is Liberty.
'Tis trying, without reaſon, ſir,
To propagate high treaſon, ſir,
Or cut a brother's wheezen, ſir,
That is Liberty.
To knock your neighbour down, ſir,
If ever it were known, ſir,
That he poſſeſs'd a crown, ſir,
That is Liberty.
To ſet up guillotines, ſir,
To murder kings and queens, ſir,
And all ſuch pretty ſcenes, ſir,
That is Liberty:
To pull down church and ſtate, ſir,
At any kind of rate, ſir,
Or knock you o'er the pate, ſir,
That is Liberty.
To make mankind a clod, ſir,
And what is very odd, ſir,
Acknowledging no God, ſir,
That is Liberty.
John ſaid the times are bad, ſir,
The folks are ſurely mad, ſir,
For making ſuch a ſad ſtir,
If that be Liberty.
CLODY AND CLARA: OR LOVE'S CONTROVERSY.
[47]CLODY.
IS it becauſe I love you more
Than ever mortal lov'd before;
Is it your ſport to uſe me ſo;
Will you not marry, Clara?
CLARA.
—No.
Why will you teaze me ev'ry day,
When I've ſo often ſaid you nay,
Have I not daily bid you go?
Prithee now leave me Clody.
CLODY.
—No.
Wou'd you then ſee poor Clody die,
Rather than with his ſuit comply?
Have you no feelings for my woe,
When I ſo dearly love you?
CLARA.
—No.
Were you in love all day to pine,
And at my door all night to whine,
My heart wou'd ſtill the harder grow;
Now will you follow Clara?
CLODY.
—No.
Since you're ſo ſavage and unkind,
I'll try ſome other maid to find,
But none ſhall ever treat me ſo,
For Clara has diſcharg'd me.
CLARA.
—No.
I hope my Clody does but rave,
Have I not been thy loving ſlave?
I did but joke, pray do not go;
Will you not Clara marry?
CLODY.
—No.
[48]
You've teaz'd the humble mouſe too long,
You've done your faithful Clody wrong;
Now to the winds your love I'll blow,
And heed no more your yes or no!
CLARA.
Prithee my Clody do not go!
CLODY.
Have you not ſaid too often, no?
CLARA.
Are you not joking! ſure you are?
CLODY.
Have you not borne the joke too far?
CLARA.
But I will never more do ſo!
Say, will you not believe me?
CLODY.
—No.
MY OWN FIRE-SIDE.
KIT CUMILE talks of his high-faſhion'd joys,
Of each trifle he ſpeaks with delight?
His hours each day with his horſe he employs,
And his bottle and miſtreſs at night:
Give me the delights that will cheriſh the mind,
Dup'd neither by folly or pride,
A wife that is friendly, that's loving and kind,
On my knee by my own fire ſide.
The over-grown cit, that has throve by the gripe,
Diſtreſſing his neighbours around,
Would gladly his ſins puff away with his pipe,
Or tries them in liquor to drown'd:
On his riches he fain wou'd eternity raiſe,
But Time clips the wings of his pride;
Give me that eternal, that genial blaze,
That glows by my own fire-ſide.
Let princes, for honor, contend in the wars,
And the ſtateſman for profit or place,
Aſtrologers wander about in the ſtars,
Or my lord break his neck in the chace;
[49]Such pleaſures are tranſient and dangerous all,
'Tis a truth that can ne'er be deny'd;
I ſit at my eaſe, ſhould they riſe, ſhould they fall,
And regale by my own fire-ſide.
AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.
OF friendſhip men often will boaſt to each other,
For we all are conſider'd as ſiſter or brother;
Life's a meer maſquerade, and 'tis often the caſe,
That you'll meet an old friend, that ſhall wear a new face.
You ſhall ſit at the board where the toaſts freely paſs,
And good ſentiments given on filling each glaſs,
But meet the next morning, and often you'll trace,
That your over-night friend has put on a new face.
If you've e'er been connected with placemen or trade,
When your word or your vote would have yielded them aid,
Though your hand might be ſqueez'd by old Grub or his Grace,
When their ends are once ſerv'd they will ſhew a new face.
Should Fortune by chance throw a purſe in your way,
What a many fine things will each flatterer ſay,
Should ſhe once turn her back, you ſhall ſink in diſ⯑grace,
And the devil a friend but will wear a new face.
Then let each worthy fellow take care of himſelf,
And keep a few comforts in ſtore on his ſhelf;
Yet be not a niggard, with prudence keep pace,
And deſpiſe that old friend that ſhall wear a new face.
THE RESPONSIVE DOVE.
[50]YOUNG Phillis over-night had been,
To dance upon the rural green,
And while ſhe mingl'd with the ſwains,
Aſſembl'd from the neighb'ring plains,
The envy'd partner which ſhe choſe,
Was Thyrſis, firſt of village beaus;
As accidents oft come by chance,
They both were wounded in the dance.
Each found within the troubl'd breaſt
A pain that would not let them reſt;
She to the wood ſequeſter'd ſtray'd,
And in the gloomy ſhelt'ring ſhade,
Said to herſelf, in accents low,
What can it be diſturbs me ſo?
When o'er her head, a liſt'ning dove,
Reſponſive cry'd—fair maid 'tis love.
When Thyrſis heard ſhe'd left her home,
Reſolv'd with haſty ſteps to roam,
And with an ardent lover's faith,
He ſought each wood's remoteſt path,
Until he found his Phillis dear,
Who wond'ring cry'd—What brought you here?
When ſtraight reply'd the penſive dove,
What ſhould it be fair maid but love?
I THOUGHT IT WAS QUEER.
AS I lean'd o'er a gate one Midſummer's eve.
When the ſky in the brook look'd ſo clear,
Young Robin came ſlily and tugg'd at my ſleeve,
And I could not help thinking it queer.
[51]
He patted my cheek, and he play'd with my hand,
And he gave ſuch a whimſical leer,
Then talk'd about things I could ſcarce underſtand,
That I could not help thinking it queer.
Now all of a ſudden he let his thoughts looſe,
And he aſk'd if to church I would ſteer,
I thought him a whimſical mad-headed gooſe,
For his talking of matters ſo queer.
I meant to have chid him for what he had ſaid,
When he whiſper'd ſo ſoft in my ear,
That if I had check'd him my heart would have bled,
For it panted and flutter'd ſo queer.
How long have you lov'd me, pray Robin, ſaid I?
When he anſwer'd, "a calendar year;"
I then was reſolv'd with his ſuit to comply,
Although it ſeemed haſty and queer.
Folks thought it ſo odd, that an hour or ſo,
Should have made me ſo ready appear;
But many a laſs who have anſwer'd with—no,
Have died like old maidens ſo queer!
LOVE AND TIME.
JOHN met with Peg the other day,
As ſhe to church was walking,
And as he had a deal to ſay,
He ſtraight began a talking;
He aſk'd her if her heart was free,
Or if ſhe him approv'd,
And all the while could plainly ſee,
Her ſnowy boſom mov'd.
[52]
His heart was yet, 'tween hope and fear,
And ſtrove his doubts to ſmother,
Unleſs thoſe heavings of his dear,
Might move thus for another;
Awhile ſhe bluſh'd, and now ſhe ſmil'd,
Cry'd, prithee be not ſimple;
Yet love, the more his heart beguil'd,
And ſported in each dimple.
She thought he talk'd too ſoon of love,
'Twas time enough for wooing,
He told her Time did ſwiftly move,
And Time was Love's undoing;
Peg then reply'd, if that's the caſe,
'Tis time that we were moving,
And ſaid, with ſadneſs in her face,
He ſure wont kill for loving.
Why then cry'd John, let's haſte to church,
And all our fears deliver.
Old Time ſhall linger in the lurch,
And Love ſhall live for ever.
Away they went—made moſt of Time,
In ſpite of all his flurry;
Love ſaw they both were in their prime,
So bound them in a hurry.
THE ROYAL COTTAGER.
WHEN e'er I think on that dear ſpot,
On which I fix'd my rural cot,
Then, when my roſe hung on my arm,
All free from guile, and free from harm,
My days they glided on with glee,
And all things then, were well with me.
[53]
But when once drawn away by fate,
Unto a more exalted ſtate,
By ſmiling fortune, promis'd fair,
Until ſhe brought her train of care;
'Twas then I firſt began to ſee,
That happineſs had fled from me.
The noiſe of cities, glare of courts,
Where gay diſſimulation ſports,
Where envy fain wou'd blight my Roſe,
Becauſe her cheek ſo purely glows;
Let fortune take her ſtores again,
Give me my cot, and rural plain.
And while I tread the ocean's ſide,
The greateſt pleaſure, greateſt pride,
Shall be each day, with Roſe to walk,
In ſocial inoffenſive talk,
And when each bliſsful day ſhall cloſe,
The waves ſhall lull us to repoſe.
POLL OF PRESTBURY.
ON a rural village green,
Where the ruſtic ſports are ſeen,
When the lads and laſſes play,
At the cloſe of ſummer's day;
There young William chanc'd to ſee,
Pretty Poll of Preſtbury.
If ſhe tripp'd the turf along,
If ſhe warbl'd out a ſong,
William ſeem'd to ſhew ſurprize,
In his love-enraptur'd eyes;
Said, how happy he cou'd be,
With ſweet Poll of Preſtbury.
[54]
Oft he fidl'd near her ſide,
Aſking her to be his bride;
She wou'd turn her head away,
Telling him, ſhe'd nought to ſay;
William cry'd, ah! turn to me,
Pretty Poll of Preſtbury.
Baſhfully ſhe rais'd her head,
And theſe words, in pity ſaid,
" William, you are come too late;
" To be Allen's is my fate."
Cruel fate, (replied he,)
Adieu, ſweet Poll, of Preſtbury.
Thou wert once, my hope and pride,
All the world was nought beſide;
Now each hope is fled away,
Leaving me to love a prey,
To pine, to weep, to think on thee,
My pretty Poll of Preſtbury.
THE RATIONALS.
THE viands clear'd, let nought be heard,
But jollity and fun,
And while we ſit, let's call in wit,
She'll treat us with a pun.
Good wine you know, makes wit to flow,
Along in full career;
But let your wit, be always fit,
To meet a ſage's ear;
For ſhou'd you daſh your thoughts with traſh,
Or ſmuttily beſmear,
We'll make you drink, twice to the brink,
To waſh your ſenſes clear.
[55]Your laſſes toaſt, but make no boaſt,
Leſt envy ſhou'd appear,
Some wag, that's by, perhaps may try,
Her blazon'd charms to ſhare;
They are not wiſe, who riches prize,
And tell where they are laid;
And he's the ſame, that boaſts the fame,
Of his betrothed maid.
Then let's be blithe, leſt with his ſcythe,
Old Time, upon his ſtumps,
Shou'd come and ſee, we wanted glee,
And take us in the dumps.
FINIS
Appendix A
W. DYDE, PRINTER, TEWKESBURY.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5004 One thousand eight hundred or I wish you a happy new year Being a choice collection of favourite songs on serious moral and lively subjects Written and carefully revised by George Saville Carey. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5F6F-F