TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
A JOURNEY TO EXETER. 1716.
WHILE you, my Lord, bid ftately piles afcend,
in your Chifwick bowers enjoy your friend; Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach, The purple vine, blue plum, and blushing peach; I journey far. You knew fat Bards might tire, And, mounted, fent me forth your trufty Squire. 'Twas on the day when city-dames repair To take their weekly dofe of Hyde-park air; When forth we trot: no carts the road infeft, For ftill on Sundays country horses rest. Thy gardens, Kenfington, we leave unfeen; Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham-green. That Turnham-green, which dainty pigeons fed, But feeds no more: for * Solomon is dead. Three dufty miles reach Brentford's tedious town, For dirty ftreets and white-legg'd chickens known:
* A man once famous for feeding pigeons.
Thence, o'er wide fhrubby heaths and furrow'd lanes,
We come where Thames divides the meads of Staines.
We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood
Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar'd for war, now Bagfhot-heath we cross,
Where broken gamefters oft' repair their lofs.
At Hartley-row the foaming bit we preft,
While the fat landlord welcom'd every guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glaffes crown'd,
Our hoft extoll'd his wine at every round;
Relates the juftices late meeting there,
How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;
What lords had been his guests in days of yore,
And prais'd their wisdom much, their drinking more.
Let travellers the morning-vigils keep:
The morning rofe, but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the fultry fun,
And Popham-lane was scarce in fight by one:
The ftraggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
'Twas here the stage-coach'd lafs refign'd her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns,
And fent her home a belle to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood:
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;
For, fhould the maiden-mother nurse her fon,
'Twould spoil her match when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hoftefs nineteen children bore,
Nor fail'd her breast to fuckle nineteen more.
Be juft, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear:
Be virgins ftill in town, but mothers here.
Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down,
And with the setting fun reach Stockbridge town.
O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.
Sad melancholy every visage wears;
What! no election come in seven long years!
Of all our race of mayors, fhall Snow * alone
Be by Sir Richard's dedication known?
Our streets no more with tides of ale fhall float,
Nor coblers feast three years upon one vote.
Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded plain,
Where the cloak'd fhepherd guides his fleecy train.
No leafy bowers a noon-day shelter lend,
Nor from the chilly dews at night defend :
With wondrous art, he counts the ftraggling flock,
And by the fun informs you what's o'clock.
How are our shepherds fall'n from ancient days!
No Amaryllis' chaunts alternate lays!
From her no liftening echos learn to fing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.
Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests bend,
See Sarum's steeple o'er yon hill afcend;
Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat,
And our keen ftomachs know the hour to eat.
*Sir Richard Steele, member for Stockbridge, wrote a treatife called "The Importance of Dunkirk confidered," and dedicated it to Mr. John Snow, Bailiff of Stockbridge. GAY.Dr. Swift wrote a humorous treatise in anfwer to it, called "The "Importance of the Guardian confidered, in a Second Letter to "the Bailiff of Stockbridge, 1713." N.
Who can forfake thy walls, and not admire
The proud cathedral, and the lofty spire?
What fempftrefs has not prov'd thy fciffars good?
From hence first came th' intriguing riding-hood.
Amid * three boarding-fchools well ftock'd with miffes,
Shall three knight-errants starve for want of kisses?
O'er the green turf the miles flide swift
away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
The morning rofe; the fupper reckoning paid,
And our due fees discharg❜d to man and maid,
The ready oftler near the stirrup stands,
And, as we mount, our half-pence load his hands.
Now the steep hill fair Dorchefter o'erlooks,
Border'd by meads, and wash'd by filver brooks.
Here fleep my two companions eyes fuppreft,
And propt in elbow-chairs they fnoring reft:
I weary fit, and with my pencil trace
Their painful postures, and their eyelefs face;
Then dedicate each glafs to fome fair name,
And on the fash the diamond fcrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horfes found,
Grævius would kneel, and kifs the facred ground.
On either fide low fertile valleys lie,
The distant profpects tire the travelling eye.
Through Bridport's ftony lanes our route we take,
And the proud fteep descend to Morcombe's lake.
As hearfes pafs'd, our landlord robb'd the pall,
And with the mournful 'fcutcheon hung his hall.
* There are three boarding-fchools in this town. GAY.
On unadulterate wine we here regale,
And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail.
We'climb'd the hills, when ftarry night arofe, And Axminster affords a kind repose.
The maid, fubdued by fees, her trunk unlocks,
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlafs-fmocks.
Mean time our fhirts her bufy fingers rub,
While the soap lathers o'er the foaming tub.
If women's geer fuch pleasing dreams incite,
Lend us your fmocks, ye damfels, every night!
We rife, our beards demand the barber's art;
A female enters, and performs the part.
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her eafy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus ftroak'd the beard of Jove.
Now from the steep, midst scatter'd farms and
Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves.
Behind us foon the bufy town we leave,
Where finest lace induftrious laffes weave.
Now fwelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load
Stream'd down our hats, and fmoak'd along the road;
When (O bleft fight!) a friendly fign we spy'd,
Our fpurs are flacken'd from the horses fide;
For fure a civil hoft the house commands,
Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands :
"This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen;
"Here is for horses hay, and meat for men.'
How rhyme would flourish, did each fon of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!
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