Short Poems

Tom, Tom, the piper's son,
Stole a pig, and away he run!
The pig was eat, and Tom was beat,
And Tom went roaring down the street.

To God alone , the Only donour
Of all our good and perfect Gifts,
Be Glory, Thanks, Renown and Honour,
That He my Mind ay upwards lifts;
For tho' stern Death does cut asunder
The Body, Spirit and the Soul,
Yet keeps he not the latter under:
To him belongs nought but the Foul.

To go to Rome
Is much of trouble, little of profit:
The King whom thou seekest here,
Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.

How blest the soul to whom indulgent heaven
Speaks peace divine and whispers you're forgiven
For her all nature smiles, on evry tree
Faith reads this Motto Jesus died for me.
Wether inclin'd thro flowry fields to rove
To trace the valley or explore the grove
Some beam etherial circles her around
And light and life and sacred joys are found

'Tis sweet to roam when morning's light
Resounds across the deep;
And the crystal song of the woodbine bright
Hushes the rocks to sleep,
And the blood-red moon in the blaze of noon
Is bathed in a crumbling dew,
And the wolf rings out with a glittering shout,
To-whit, to-whit, to-whoo!

Of a Ministry pitiful, angry, mean,
A Gallant Commander the victim is seen;
For Promptitude, Vigour, Success, does he stand
Condemn'd to receive a severe reprimand!
To his Foes I could wish a resemblance in fate;
That they too may suffer themselves soon or late
The Injustice they warrant — but vain is my Spite,
They cannot so who never do right. —

When Corydon went to the fair
He bought a red ribbon for Bess,
With which she encircled her hair
& made herself look very fess.

Here lies our freind who having promis-ed
That unto two she would be marri-ed
Threw her sweet Body & her lovely face
Into the Stream that runs thro' Portland Place.

How blest is her lot to set by his side
And hear the soft accents that flow
While taste wit and elegance ever preside
And dignity sets on his brow. —

Thyrsis, sleepest thou? Holla! Let not sorrow stay us.
Hold up thy head, man, said the gentle Meliboeus.
See Summer comes again, the country's pride adorning,
Hark how the cuckoo singeth this fair April morning.
O! said the shepherd, and sighed as one all undone,
Let me alone, alas, and drive him back to London.