"I am a linen-draper bold,
"As all the world does know ; "And my good friend, the callender, ." Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin-" That's well faid;
"And, for that wine is dear,
"We will be furnish'd with our own,
"Which is fo 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 chaife was brought,
But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, left all
Should fay that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaife 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 ftones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapfide were mad.
For faddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,
His journey to begin,-
When, turning round his face, he faw
Three cuftomers come in.
So down he came; for lofs of time,
Although it griev'd him fore,
Yet lofs of pence, full well he knew,
Would grieve him still much more.
'Twas long before the customers Were fuited to their mind,
When Betty scream'd into his ears
"The wine is left behind!"
Now Mrs. Gilpin-careful foul!
Had two ftone bottles found,
To hold the liquor which she lov'd,
And keep it fafe and found.
HILE you, my lord, the rural fhades admire
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the foft season and inviting clime
Confpire to trouble your repofe with rhyme.
For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And ftill I feem to tread on claffic ground;
For here the muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rear: its head unfung,
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And ev'ry ftream in heav'nly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to fearch the hills and woods For rifing fprings and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his courfe,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource;
To fee the Mincio draw his watry ftore
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking fulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures I furvey
Eridanus through flow'ry meadows ftray,
The king of floods! that rolling o'er the plains
The tow'ring Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly fwoln with a whole winter's fnows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.
Sometimes, mifguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That loft in filence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains, and their channels dry). Yet run for ever by the mufe's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty fhores admire,
That deftitute of strength derives its course.
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful fource;
Yet fung fo often in poetic lays,
With fcorn the Danube and the Nile furveys;
So high the deathless muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyn, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obfcurely ftray'd,
And unobferv'd in wild Meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Naffau's fword renown'd,
Its rifing billows through the world refound,
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 shou'd shine,
And Virgil's Italy fhould yield to mine!
See how the golden groves around me smile, -
That fhun the coaft of Britain's stormy isle,
Or when tranfplanted and preferv'd with care,
Curfe the cold clime, and starve in northern air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments
To nobler taftes, and more exalted fcents:
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 feats,,
Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats ;
Where western gales eternally refide,
And all the feafons lavish all their pride:
Bloffoms, and fruits, and flowers together rife,,
Immortal glories in my mind revive,
And in my foul a thousand paffions strive,
When Rome's exalted beauties I defcry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
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