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“ 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.”
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.
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.
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.
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 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
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 in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And unobserv'd in wild Meanders play'd ;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, -
Its rifing billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
Oh cou'd the muse ravish'd my breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, :
Unnumber'd beauties in my verse Mou'd shine,
And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile; -
That fhun the coast of Britain's stormy isle,
Or when transplanted and preserv'd with care,
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents :
Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, fome God, to Baia's gentle seats, ,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats-;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the seasons lavish all their pride :
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, ,
And the whole
confusion lies, Immortal glories in my mind revive, , And in my soul a thousand passions ftrive, When Rome's exalted beauties I descry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.