feast. My Mother. The Butterfly's Ball. Roscoe. COME take up your hats, and away let us haste To the Butterfly's ball, and the Grasshopper's [crew, The trumpeter, Gad-fly, has summon'd the And the revels are now only waiting for you. So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry companions came forth in a throng. And on the smooth grass, by the side of a wood, Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood, Saw the children of earth, and the tenants of air, For an evening's amusernent together repair. And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, [back. Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too, [blue. With all their relations, green, orange, and And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down, brown; And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and Then close on his haunches, so solemn and Then quick as an arrow he darted along. tell, [fell. From his rope, in an instant, poor harlequin Yet he touch'd not the ground, but with talons Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread. outspread, Then the Grasshopper came with a jerk and a spring, [his wing; Very long was his leg, though but short was He took but three leaps, and was soon out of the night. Then chirp'd his own praises the rest of With step so majestic the Snail did advance, And promis'd the gazers a minuet to dance. But they all laugh'd so loud that he pull'd in his head, sight, And went in his own little chamber to bed. Then, as evening gave way to the shadows of night, with a light. Their watchman, the Glow-worm, came out Then home let us hasten, while yet we can [me. For no Watchman is waiting for you and for So said little Robert, and pacing along, His merry companions return'd in a throng. see, SONGS, BALLADS, &c. &c. § 1. Song. LORD LYTTELTON. SAY, Mira, why is gentle Love A stranger to that mind, Which pity and esteem can move, Which can be just and kind? Is it because you fear to share IF in that breast, so good, so pure, Pity the sorrows I endure, The cause I must not, dare not tell. That grief that on my quiet preys, Then, if we write not by each post, The king, with wonder and surprise, But let him know it is our tears Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, Let wind and weather do its worst; Be you to us but kind, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 'Tis then no matter how things go, To pass our tedious hours away, But why should we in vain But now our fears tempestuous grow, And cast our hopes away; That rends my heart, that checks my tongue, Whilst you, regardless of our woe, I fear will last me all my days, But feel it will not last me long. §4. Song. EARL of DORSET*. To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite ; The Muses now, and Neptune too, For though the Muses should prove kind, Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind Sit careless at a play: Perhaps permit some happier man When any mournful tune you hear, Think then how often love we've made In justice you cannot refuse • Written at sea, the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement. And now we've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears; $5. Song. LORD LANSDOWNE. WHY, cruel creature, why so bent To vex a tender heart? To gold and title you relent; Love throws in vain his dart. Let glittering fops in court be great, If on those endless charms you lay But if a passion without vice, $6. Song. SIR CAR SCROOPE.. ONE night, when all the village slept, Myrtillo's sad despair The wretched shepherd waking kept, “Begone," said he, "fond thoughts, begone! That dwell within this grove, Have heard how she has sworn, "But since she's lost, O let me have Sad nightingales the watch shall keep, §7. A Pastoral Elegy. AH, Damon, dear shepherd, adieu ! By love and first nature allied, Together in fondness we grew; Åh, would we together had died! For thy faith, which resembled my own, To his friendship I ne'er can incline, For fear I should mourn him like thee. Though the muses should crown me with art, Though honor and fortune should join; Since thou art denied to my heart, What bliss can hereafter be mine? His ashes who lov'd me so well, § 8. Song. MOORE. HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb! To rest thee beside his cold clay. All mournful the midnight bell rung, And night-ravens croak'd all around. With thee o'er the world would she fly; For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd, For thee would she lie down and die. Alas! what avails it how dear Thy, Lucy was once to her swain ! Her face like the lily so fair, And eyes that gave light to the plain! The shepherd that lov'd her is gone, That face and those eyes charm no more; And Lucy, forgot and alone, To death shall her Colin deplore. While thus she lay sunk in despair, And mourn'd to the echoes around, Inflam'd all at once grew the air, And thunder shook dreadful the ground! I hear the kind call, and obey, O Colin, receive me, she cried: Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died. $9. Song. GAY. 'TWAS when the seas were roaring All on a rock reclin'd. Her head was crown'd with willows Twelve months are gone and over, But none that loves you so. A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay. O! when these fair, perfidious maids, In vain with love our bosoms glow: Speak not of fate:-ah! change the theme, Beauty has such resistless power, But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear: What cruel answer have I heard! Go boldly forth, my simple lay, § 11. Song. HARD by the hall, our master's house, With arms across, along the strand The tide, said he, will soon erase Am I some savage beast of prey, Am I some horrid monster grown, That thus she flies so swift away, Or meets me with a frown? That bosom soft, that lily skin (Trust not the fairest outside show!) Contains a marble heart within, A rock hid under snow. Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound Her tender feet, from whence there fell Those crimson drops which stain the ground, And beautify each shell. Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight, I will no more in vain pursue, But take my leave for a long night; Adieu! lov'd maid, adieu. With that he took a running leap, He took a Lover's Leap indeed, The melancholy hern stalks by; And toll his funeral bell. The waters roll above his head, §12. Song. Jemmy Dawson*. SHENSTONE. COME listen to my mournful tale, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid! Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint but mine. Young Dawson was a gallant youth, A brighter never trod the plain; And well he lov'd one charming maid, And dearly was he lov'd again. One tender maid she lov'd him dear, Of gentle blood the damsel came: And faultless was her beauteous form, And spotless was her virgin fame. But curse on party's hateful strife, That led the favor'd youth astray! The day the rebel clans appear'd, O had he never seen that day! Their colors and their sash he wore, And in that fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows So pale, or yet so chill appear. With faltering voice she weeping said: "O Dawson, monarch of my heart, Think not thy death shall end our loves, For thou and I will never part. "Yet might sweet mercy find a place, "The gracious prince that gave him life Should learn to lisp the giver's name. She follow'd him, prepar'd to view Which she had fondly lov'd so long; On which her love-sick head repos'd; And ravish'd was that constant heart, She did to every heart prefer; For, though it could its king forget, "Twas true and loyal still to her. Amid those unrelenting flames She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, "Now, now," she cried, "I follow thee! Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful Stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common, in 1746: and this Ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant. |