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That Bowzybeus who with finger's 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 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 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 plac'd above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;
Nor parish-clerk who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus soothes the' 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 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,

Vol. I.


When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn;
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!
Ah! Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the 'Squire who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,
How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants:
How the grave brother stood on bank so green;
Happy for him if mares had never been!

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,
Or Wantley's Dragon slain by valiant More;
The bower of Rosamond, or Robin Hood,
And how the grass now grows where Troy town

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 damsels laughing fly; the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;

The Pow'r that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Till ruddy like his face the sun descends.


Sweet William's Farewell to Black-ey'd Susan

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-ey'd Susan came aboard :-

Oh! where shall I my true love find!
Tell me, ye jovial sailors! tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.'
William, who high upon the yard

Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:

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,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet,
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

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
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

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,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

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,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return:

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.'
The boatswain gave the dreadful word;
The sails their swelling bosom spread;
No longer must she stay aboard:

They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head:
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land:
'Adieu!' she cries, and wav'd her lily hand.


WAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,

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,
That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, vent'rous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let a lover rest;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

The merchant, robb'd of treasure,
Views tempests in despair;

But what's the loss of treasure
To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and diamonds grow,

You'll find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

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