And know, when Tom rings out his knells,
The best of you will be but dinner-bells.
Old Tom's grown young again, the fiery cave
Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave:
He grew up quickly from his mother Earth,
For all you see was but an hour's birth;
Look on him well, my life I dare engage,
You ne're saw prettier baby of his age.
Some take his measure by the rule, some by
The Jacob's staff take his profundity,

And some his altitude; but some do swear

Young Tom's not like the old: but, Tom, ne're
The critical geometrician's line,

If thou as loud as e're thou did ring'st nine.
Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground,
But straight St. Marie's tenor lost his sound.
O how this may-pole's heart did swell

[fear

With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell
Choakt with annoy, and 's admiration,

Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation.
Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o're
What he ne're saw in many yeares before;
But when he saw the old foundation,
With some like hope of preparation,

He burst with grief; and lest he should not have
Due pomp, he's his own bell-man to the grave:
And that there might of him be still some mention,
He carried to his grave a new invention.
They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins,
And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins;

But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by Heaven,
He ne're set such a loaf into the oven.

And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,
As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker;

Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride, When thou this motto shalt have on thy side: "Great world! one Alexander conquer'd thee, And two as mighty men scarce conquer'd me.” Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn, Though hang'd, drawn, quarter'd, till they did thee burn:

Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry, Since thou was martyr'd for the churche's glory; But for thy meritorious suffering,

Thou shortly shalt to Heaven in a string:

And though we griev'd to see thee thump'd and bangd,

We'll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang'd.

A PROPER NEW BALLAD,

INTITULED

THE FAERYE'S FAREWELL;

OR,

GOD-A-MERCY WILL.

To be sung or whiseled to the tune of "The Meddow Brow," by the Learned; by the Unlearned, to the tune of "Fortune.”

FAREWELL rewards and Faeries,

Good houswives now may say,

For now foule slutts in daries

Doe fare as well as they.

And though they sweepe theyr hearths no less
Then maydes were wont to doe,

Yet who of late for cleaneliness,
Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbies,

The Faries lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,
But some have chang'd your land:
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now growne Puritanes;
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demaines.

At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe or sloth
These prettie ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,

Then merrily merrily went theyre tabor,
And nimbly went theyre toes.

Wittness those rings and roundelayes
Of theirs, which yet remaine,
Were footed in queene Marie's dayes
On many a grassy playne;
But since of late, Elizabeth,

And later, James came in,
They never daunc'd on any heath
As when the time hath bin.

By which we note the Faries
Were of the old profession;
Theyre songs were Ave Maryes;
Theyre daunces were procession :

SELECT POEMS.

But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,

Or elce they take theyre ease.

A tell-tale in theyre company
They never could endure,
And whoe so kept not secretly
Theyre mirth was punisht sure;
It was a just and christian deed
To pinch such blacke and blew:
O how the common welth doth need
Such justices as you!

Now they have left our quarters
A register they have,

Who looketh to theyre charters,
A man both wise and grave;
An hundred of theyre merry prancks
By one that I could name

Are kept in store, conn twenty thanks
To William for the same.

I marvell who his cloake would turne
When Pucke had led him round,

Or where those walking fires would burne,
Where Cureton would be found;

How Broker would appeare to be,
For whom this age doth mourne;
But that theyre spiritts live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.

To William Chourne of Stafford shire
Give laud and prayses due,

367

Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true :
To William all give audience,
And pray ye for his noddle,
For all the Farie's evidence

Were lost, if that were addle.

ΤΟ

THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME.*

THOU, once a body, now but aire,

Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer,

From Carfax come;

And patch me up a zealous lay,

With an old ever and for ay,

Or, all and some.

Or such a spirit lend me,

As may a hymne downe send me,

To purge my braine:

So, Robert, looke behinde thee,

Least Turke or Pope doe find thee,

And goe to bed againe.

* See Warton's History of English Poetry, vol. iii. p. 170, 171. G.

He contributed some of the Psalms in the Old Version. C.