English

A Song.

Tune, Poor Laurie .

Come fill up the bowl, my brave boys!
And round let us circle the treasure;
Huzza! my good fellows, rejoice!
For here is a fountain of pleasure.
And while the big Bumper doth pass,
Old Bacchus shall never confound me;
I'll drink, and, between every glass,
Loud roar of the Wits that surround me,

A Song.

Tune, One Bottle more .

From the village of Lessly with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, Irambled out free,
Resolv'd that same ev'ning, as Luna was full,
To lodge ten miles distant, in old Achtertool.

Thro' many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
The road I explor'd out, without form or rule,

Vere novo lux usque redit qua nascor, at una
Dum tempus redit, & fit numerosa dies,
Ver olim vires renovans, roburque recondens
Æstas fit tandem, tristis hyemsque mihi.

Let me, from noontide heats remov'd,
All careless near yon Grotto lie,
And mark the flaunting Woodbine wave
To the soft winds that round me fly!

There shall my Lyre her praise attune
For whom, thus lost to all, I stray,
While every Breeze applauds my Theme,
And every Echo joins my Lays!

Haggard harlot! why thus dare
To wage with me eternal war,
Shall I bear it? no, thou strumpet!
Here I swear, in voice like trumpet,
Soon's thou shows thy visage elf,
Meet thy fate and blame thyself.
Did I e'er invite, or wrong thee?
Did I vow e'er to belong t' thee?
Do I welcome? Do I nurse thee?
No, thou ly'st — I hate, I curse thee;
Why, then, black, presumpt'ous ghost,
Why thus stern invade my coast?
Some thou throws but shadows o'er them,
Fly'st thyself, and all adore them.
Why thus partial? If the Muse

On her insisting to know who was the subject of a certain Panegyric.

Beauteous maid! no more enquire on
Who thus warms my raptur'd strain;
Here I'll strive to paint the fair one,
Though, alas! I strive in vain.

Tall and graceful is her stature;
Loose and dazzling is her dress;
Cupids sport from every feature,
And in ev'ry jet black tress.

Mild she's, as the dewy morning,

Thrice blest! sweet wanderer of the vale,
Who in my Delia's chaplet strays,
Could I like thee 'midst Lilys pale
For one short moment tune my Lays.

Oh! as in some sequester'd Bower
Round her you sing soft Lullabies,
Tell her I pine like that same flower
That droops, forsaken — fades, and dies!

Whilom the Nine all careless took their way
By brook or pathless vale, in shady grove
List'ning where'er that Wight,
Recluse from mortal sight,
In Valombrosa's bowers bemoaned his Love,
Or Grecian maid tuned soft her sweetest lay!

But now, more social grown, ne Groves allure,
Ne streamlet's flowery brim their steps beguile.
They dwell secure, I ween,
On Wimbledon's smooth green,
And, far from their forsaken haunts, awhile
To hold sweet converse deign with Mortals pure!

Where the bright beam no passage finds,
Let me beneath yon Grotto lie,
While all above the playful winds
Around the waving woodbine fly!

There wrapt in Fancy's pleasing dream,
My Lyre shall soft attune thy praise,
While every breeze applauds my theme,
And every Echo joins my Lays.

From thy pale look, while angry Love doth seem
With more imperiousness to give his Law,
Then where he blushingly doth beg esteem,
We may observe py'd beauty in such aw;
That the brav'st Colour under her command
Affrighted, oft before you doth retire,
While, like a Statue of your self, you stand
In such symmetrique form, as doth require
No lustre but his own: As then in vain
One should flesh-colouring to Statues add,
So were it to your native White a Stain,
If it in other ornaments were clad,