Page images
PDF
EPUB

Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls th' Illyrian coast; But soon the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce ; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, wing'd with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly

Drop freedom, health, and gay desires : While the bright Seine, t'exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires.

Enamour'd of the Seine, celestial fair,

(The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,)
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care,
Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain :
There secret in her sapphire cell,
He with the Nais wont to dwell;
Leaving the nectar'd feasts of Jove:
And where her mazy waters flow
He gave the mantling vine to grow,
A trophy to his love.

Shall man from Nature's sanction stray,
With blind opinion for his guide;
And, rebel to her rightful sway,
Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows;
With equal speed the torrent flows,

To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: The past is all by death possest;

And frugal fate that guards the rest,
By giving, bids him live To-Day.

O Gower! through all the destined space, What breath the Powers allot to me Shall sing the virtues of thy race,

United and complete in thee.

O flower of ancient English faith!
Pursue th' unbeaten Patriot-path,

In which confirm'd thy father shone :
The light his fair example gives,
Already from thy dawn receives
A lustre equal to its own.

Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd,
Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume;
Loud Pans echoing round the roof are heard,
And clouds of incense all the void perfume.
There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland seated near his side,

Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace;
Prophetic of thy happier fame,
She, to receive thy radiant name,
Selects a whiter space.

[blocks in formation]

EDWARD (familiarly called Ned) WARD was a low-born uneducated man, who followed the trade of a publican. He is said, however, to have attracted many eminent persons to his house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a general acquaintance among authors, and to have been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. In those times the tavern was a less discreditable haunt than at present, and his literary acquaintance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended him very much by saying, in his account of the poets, that he kept a publichouse in the city. He publicly contradicted the

assertion as a falsehood, stating that his house was not in the city, but in Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the industry, or cacoethes, of this facetious publican, who wrote his very will in verse. His favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a complete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally gross; but his descriptions are still curious and full of life, and are worth preserving, as delineations of the manners of the times.

SONG.

O GIVE me, kind Bacchus, thou god of the vine,
Not a pipe or a tun, but an ocean of wine ;
Anda ship that's well-mann'd with such rare merry
fellows,

That ne'er forsook tavern for porterly ale-house.
May her bottom be leaky to let in the tipple,
And no pump on board her to save ship or people;
So that each jolly lad may suck heartily round,
And be always obliged to drink or be drown'd!

Let a fleet from Virginia, well laden with weed, And a cargo of pipes, that we nothing may need, Attend at our stern to supply us with guns,

And to weigh us our funk, not by pounds, but by

tuns.

When thus fitted out we would sail cross the line,
And swim round the world in a sea of good wine;
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more
To renounce such a life for the pleasures on shore.

Look cheerfully round us and comfort our eyes
With a deluge of claret inclosed by the skies;
A sight that would mend a pale mortal's complexion,
And make him blush more than the sun by reflexion.
No zealous contentions should ever perplex us,
No politic jars should divide us or vex us;
No presbyter Jack should reform us or ride us,
The stars and our whimsical noddles should guide us.
No blustering storms should possess us with fears,
Or hurry us, like cowards, from drinking to prayers,
But still with full bowls we'd for Bacchus maintain
The most glorious dominion o'er the clarety main;
And tipple all round till our eyes shone as bright
As the sun does by day, or the moon does by night.
Thus would I live free from all care or design,
And when death should arrive I'd be pickled in wine;
That is, toss'd over-board, have the sea for my grave,
And lie nobly entomb'd in a blood-colour'd wave;

That, living or dead, both my body and spirit Should float round the globe in an ocean of claret, The truest of friends and the best of all juices, Worth both the rich metals that India produces: For all men we find from the young to the old, Will exchange for the bottle their silver and gold, Except rich fanatics-a pox on their pictures ! That make themselves slaves to their prayers and their lectures;

And think that on earth there is nothing divine, But a canting old fool and a bag full of coin. What though the dull saint make his standard and sterling

His refuge, his glory, his god, and his darling; The mortal that drinks is the only brave fellow, Though never so poor he's a king when he's mellow; Grows richer than Croesus with whimsical thinking, And never knows care whilst he follows his drinking.

JOHN GAY.

[Born, 1688. Died, 1732.]

GAY's Pastorals are said to have taken with the public not as satires on those of Ambrose Philips, which they were meant to be, but as natural and just imitations of real life and of rural manners. It speaks little, however, for the sagacity of the poet's town readers, if they enjoyed those caricatures in earnest, or imagined any truth of English manners in Cuddy and Cloddipole contending with Amabæan verses for the prize or song, or in Bowzybeus rehearsing the laws of nature. If the allusion to Philips was overlooked, they could only be relished as travesties of Virgil, for Bowzybeus himself would not be laughable unless we recollected Silenus*.

Gay's Trivia seems to have been built upon the hint of Swift's Description of a City Shower†. It exhibits a picture of the familiar customs of the metropolis that will continue to become more

amusing as the customs grow obsolete. As a fabulist he has been sometimes hypercritically blamed for presenting us with allegorical impersonations. The mere naked apologue of Æsop is too simple to interest the human mind, when its fancy and understanding are past the state of childhood or barbarism. La Fontaine dresses the stories which he took from Æsop and others with such profusion of wit and naïveté, that his manner conceals the insipidity of the matter. "La sauce vaut mieux que le poisson." Gay, though not equal to La Fontaine, is at least free from his occasional prolixity; and in one instance, (the Court of Death) ventures into allegory with considerable power. Without being an absolute simpleton, like La Fontaine, he possessed a bonhomie of character which forms an agreeable trait of resemblance between the fabulists.

MONDAY; OR THE SQUABBLE.

LORBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODdipole.

L. Clout. THY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,

No thrustles shrill the bramble bush forsake,

[* That in these pastorals Gay has hit, undesignedly perhaps, the true spirit of pastoral poetry, was the opinion of Goldsmith: "In fact," he adds, "he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever." Yet he will not defend, he says, the antiquated expressions.]

[ Gay acknowledges in the prefatory Advertisement that he owes several hints of it to Dr. Swift.]

[Gay is now best known as the author of The Beggars' Opera, which, in spite of its passed political tendency, still keeps, by its music chiefly, its hold upon the stage; and as the author of Black Eyed Susan, which when sung, as it often is, with feeling, brings to remembrance or acquaint

No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes, No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ; ance a once familiar name. The multitude know nothing of Trivia; to a Londoner even, it is a dead-letter; and few of the many have read or even heard of The Shepherd s Week. The stage and the convivial club have essentially assisted in preserving his fame. The works of Gay are on our shelves, but not in our pockets-in our remembrance, but not in our memories.

His Fables are as good as a series of such pieces will in all possibility ever be. No one has envied him their production; but many would like to have the fame of having | written The Shepherd's Week, Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad that begins :

"Twas when the seas were roaring."

Had he given his time to satire he had excelled, for his lines on Blackmore are in the extreme of bitterness ]

[blocks in formation]

L. Clout. Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by Than does their fawns, or cows, the new-fallen calf: Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal?

Cuddy. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo, yonder, Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
From Cloddipole we learn to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that showerswould straight ensue:
He first that useful secret did explain,

That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain.
When swallows fleet soar high, and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

L. Clout. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lined with Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer. [hair, This pouch that's tied with tape of reddest hue, I'llwager that the prize shall be my due. [slouch! Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

L. Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens sweet, Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet: But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair, Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.

Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd. Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain, The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftest feats around; But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

[blocks in formation]

And holidays, if haply she were gone,
Like worky-days, I wish'd would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind! my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

L. Clout. As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood, Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,

I slyly ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cuddy. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroked her milky care,
I queintly stole a kiss: at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
L. Clout. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen
butter's dear,

Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind;
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize.

Cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks
The capon fat delights his dainty wife, [his knife,
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

L. Clout. As once I play'd at blindman's buff, About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt. [it hapt I miss'd the swains, and seized on Blouzelind. True speaks that ancient proverb, "Love is blind.”

Cuddy. As at hot cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
L. Clout. On two near elms the slacken'd cord
I hung,

Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung ;
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.

Cuddy. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself poised against the tottering maid :
High leap'd the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I spied-but faithful sweethearts never tell.

L. Clout. This riddle, Cuddy if thou canst exThis wily riddle puzzles every swain. [plain, "What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the same?"

Cuddy. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight. [right, "What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves !" Cloddipole. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er

your strains!

An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry,
They're weary of your songs-and so am I.

THURSDAY; OR THE SPELL.

HOBNELIA.

HOBNELIA, seated in a dreary vale,

In pensive mood rehearsed her piteous tale;
Her piteous tale the winds in sighs bemoan,
And pining Echo answers groan for groan.
I rue the day, a rueful day I trow,
The woful day, a day indeed of woe!
When Lubberkin to town his cattle drove,
A maiden fine bedight he hapt to love;
The maiden fine bedight his love retains,
And for the village he forsakes the plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, these ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and spells shall ease my care.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
When first the year I heard the cuckow sing,
And call with welcome note the budding spring,
I straightway set a-running with such haste,
Deborah that won the smock scarce ran so fast;
Till spent for lack of breath, quite weary grown,
Upon a rising bank I sat adown,

Then doff'd my shoe, and by my troth, I swear, Therein I spied this yellow frizzled hair, As like to Lubberkin's in curl and hue, As if upon his comely pâte it grew. "With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
At eve last midsummer no sleep I sought,
But to the field a bag of hemp-seed brought :
I scatter'd round the seed on every side,
And three times in a trembling accent cried,
"This hemp-seed with my virgin hand I sow,
Who shall my true-love be, the crop shall mow."
I straight look'd back, and, if my eyes speak truth,
With his keen scythe behind me came the youth.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
Last Valentine, the day when birds of kind
Their paramours with mutual chirpings find ;
I rearly rose, just at the break of day,
Before the sun had chased the stars away;
A-field I went, amid the morning dew,
To milk my kine (for so should huswives do);
Thee first I spied and the first swain we see,
In spite of fortune shall our true love be.
See, Lubberkin, each bird his partner take;
And canst thou then thy sweetheart dear forsake?
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
Last May-day fair I search'd to find a snail,
That might my secret lover's name reveal.
Upon a gooseberry-bush a snail I found,
(For always snails near sweetest fruit abound).
I seized the vermine, whom I quickly sped,
And on the earth the milk-white embers spread.

Slow crawl'd the snail, and, if a right can spell,
In the soft ashes mark'd a curious L;
Oh, may this wond'rous omen lucky prove!
For L is found in Lubberkin and Love.

"With my sharp heel I three times mark the ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
Two hazel nuts I threw into the flame,
And to each nut I gave a sweetheart's name;
This with the loudest bounce me sore amazed,
That in a flame of brightest colour blazed.
As blazed the nut, so may thy passion grow;
For 'twas thy nut that did so brightly glow.
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around.”

As peasecods once I pluck'd, I chanced to see, One that was closely fill'd with three times three, Which when I cropp'd I safely home convey'd, And o'er the door the spell in secret laid; My wheel I turn'd, and sung a ballad new, While from the spindle I the fleeces drew; The latch moved up, when, who should first come But, in his proper person-Lubberkin.

[in

I broke my yarn, surprised the sight to see;
Sure sign that he would break his word with me.
Eftsoons I join'd it with my wonted sleight:
So may again his love with mine unite!
"With my sharp heel I three times mark the
ground,

And turn me thrice around, around, around."
This lady-fly I take from off the grass,
Whose spotted back might scarlet red surpass,
Fly, lady-bird, north, south, or east, or west,
Fly where the man is found that I love best."
He leaves my hand; see, to the west he's flown,
To call my true-love from the faithless town.
"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.

A A

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
O'er yonder stile see Lubberkin appears. [ears,
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 rosin'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 bespoke :

"To you my lads, I'll sing my carols 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 th' 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 upwards 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 scissars 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.

« PreviousContinue »