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That Bowzybeus who with finger's speed
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
Ah! Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long? The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong! Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night, But thou sats toping till the morning light.
Cic'ly, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,
And plays a tickling straw within his nose.
No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
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 upward 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 scissors 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: Of rareeshows he sung, and Punch's feats, Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats. Then sad he sung The Children in the Wood; Ah! barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood! How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, And fearless at the glittering fauchion smil'd: Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found, And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around. Ah! gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, Your names shall live for ever in my song. For buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell What woful wars in Chevy-chace befell,
When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn;
All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,
Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm, And, on a sudden, sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, Lille-bullero, and the Irish Trot.
Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore,
His carols ceas'd; the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose; and as he reels along,
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The Pow'r that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Sweet William's Farewell to Black-ey'd Susan
ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
Oh! where shall I my true love find!
Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
So the sweet lark, high-pois'd in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
O Susan! Susan! lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear;
We only part to meet again.
Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be
Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
If to far India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory, so white:
Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head:
WAS when the seas were roaring
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclin'd:
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wishful look,
Her head was crown'd with willows,
Twelve months are gone and over,
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
The merchant, robb'd of treasure,
But what's the loss of treasure
Should you some coast be laid on
You'll find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.