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The History of JOHN GILPIN,

Of CHE APSID E.

A DROLL STORY, read by Mr. HenDERSON, with

great Applause, at Free Mason's Tavern.

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OHN GIL PIN was a citizen

Of credit and renown ;
A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear-

Though wedded we have been ** These twice ten tedious years, yet we

“ No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day,

• And we will then repair * Unto the Bell at Edmonton,

“ All in a chaise and pair.

*. My sister and my sister's child,

Myself and children three, - Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

« On horfeback after we.”

He foon reply'd' I do admire

«Of womankind but one ; " And you are she, my dearest dear,

4. Therefore it shall be done.

“ I am a linen-draper bold,

« As all the world does know; And my good friend, the callender,

-66 Will lend his horse to go.”

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Quoth Mrs. Gilpin-" That's well said ;

And, for that wine is dear, * We will be furnish'd with our own,

" Which is so bright and clear.”

* John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;

O’erjoy'd was he to find,
That though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, left all

Should say that she was proud.

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So three doors off the chaise was staid,

Where they did all get in, Six precious fouls; and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.'.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks fo glad ;
The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapfide were mad.

John

John Gilpin, at his horse's fide,

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haite to ride,

But soon came down again.

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,

His journey to begin,
When, turning round his face, he faw

Three customers come in.

So down he came ; for loss of time,

Although it griev'd him fore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would grieve him still much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind,
When Betty scream'd into his ears

The wine is left behind!”

« Good lack !" quoth he; “ yet bring it me,

“ My leathern belt likewise, 5. In which I bear my trusty sword

“ When I do exercise.”

Now Mrs. Gilpin-careful soul !

Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor which she lov’d,

And keep it safe and found.

Each

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, ,

HILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,

And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to plcafe,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And fill I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rear: its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each fh.dy thicket grows,
And ev'ry stream in heav'niy numbers flows,

How

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods ! To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course, And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source ; To see the Mincio draw his

watry

store
Through the long windings of a fruitful fhore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O’er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.

Fir’d with a thousand raptures I survey
Eridanus through Aow'ry meadows stray,
The king of floods ! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry)
Yet run for ever by the muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur ftill.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty shores admire,
That destitute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source ;
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys ;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme !
Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream,

That

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