Limping Vulcan het an iron bar, Mars with his weapon laid about, Mercury, the nimble post of heaven, To me he drank; I did him thank, But I could get no cider ; 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, 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, They call'd him the pride of the plain; 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, But which of them equal'd his song. And thus-let me break it in twain. SONG L. A DIRGE. BY MR. D'URFEY.* SLEEP, sleep, poor youth; sleep, sleep in peace, Whilst we that pine in life's disease, Couch'd in the dark and silent grave, Wars that do fatal storms disperse, Far from thy happy mansion keep; 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, 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, *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 No wailing ghost shall dare appear And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, The red-breast oft at evening hours When howling winds, and beating rain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. |