Limping Vulcan het an iron bar,
And furiously ran at the god of War:

Mars with his weapon laid about,
Limping Vulcan had got the gout;
His broad horns did so hang in his sight,
He could not see to aim his blows aright:

Mercury, the nimble post of heaven,
Stood still to see the quarrel;
Gorrel-bellied Bacchus, giant-like,
Bestrid a strong-beer barrel :

To me he drank;

I did him thank,

But I could get no cider ;
He drank whole buts,

Till he burst his guts,

But mine were ne'er the wider.

Poor Tom is very dry;

A little drink for charity!

Hark! I hear Acteon's hounds;

The huntsmen whoop and hollow; Ringwood, Rockwood, Jowler, Bowman, All the chase doth follow.

The man in the moon drinks claret,
Eats powder'd beef, turnip, and carrot;

But a cup of old Malaga sack

Will fire the bush at his back.

0.

SONG XLIX.

CORYDON:-A Pastoral.

To the Memory of William Shenstone, Esq.

BY MR. JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
We'll see our lov'd Corydon laid:
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,
Yet let a sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In sooth, he was gentle and kind !
He mark'd in his elegant strain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell; He cultur'd his thyme for the bees, But never would rifle their cell. Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet, Go bleat-and your master bemoan;

His music was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear; The sweets of the forest shall fail, And winter discolour the year; No birds in our hedges shall sing, (Our hedges so vocal before) Since he that should welcome the spring, Salutes the gay season no more.

His Phillis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd-they envied his lays,

But which of them equal'd his song.
Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

SONG L.

A DIRGE.

BY MR. D'URFEY.*

SLEEP, sleep, poor youth; sleep, sleep in peace,
Reliev'd from love, and mortal care;

Whilst we that pine in life's disease,
Uncertain blest, less happy are.

Couch'd in the dark and silent grave,
No ills of fate thou now canst fear;
In vain would tyrant power enslave,
Or scornful beauty be severe.

Wars that do fatal storms disperse,

Far from thy happy mansion keep;
Earthquakes that shake the universe,

Can't rock thee into sounder sleep.

* Sung in the first part of Don Quixote by a shepherd and shepherdess. Set by Mr. Eccles.'

With all the charms of peace possest, Secure from life's tormentor, pain ; Sleep, and indulge thyself with rest, Nor dream thou e'er shalt rise again.

CHORUS.

Past is the fear of future doubt,
The sun is from the dial gone,
The sands are sunk, the glass is out,
The folly of the farce is done.

How sleep the brave who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest? When spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck the hallow'd mold, She then shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

*Written in 1746.

SONG LII.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

Sung by Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed te be dead.

BY THE SAME.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids, and village-hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd-lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.