Ballad of Bouts Rimés

in honour to the miss berrys

 M ARK the course of the Thames ,
 And of Beauty the gems,
On its meadows, or bridges, or ferries;
 Eyes of loveliest hue,
 Black, or hazel, or blue,
What are these to the eyes of the Berrys?

 Dear to Cats mischief-brewing
 Are elopements and ruin;
To Sir John cups of sack or of sherry:
 Give to Warren's direction
 A sweet nervous affection—
Give to me the lov'd offspring of Berry .

 For twelve hours at least
 On their charms I could feast,
Now in bow-window rooms—now in wherries.
 Think you Orpheus's Belle
 Over gates look'd so well,
Fate had let him have peep'd at the Berrys .

 What are draughts of champaigne,
 If the heart is in pain,
Or cool tankards of cyder and perry?
 But 'tis Heaven to sip
 Honey-dew from the lip
Of sweet Mary , or t' other sweet Berry .

 Though Hibernia can boast
 Lady Townshend her toast—
Yet, in Dublin or fam'd Londonderry ,
 Hope in vain to discover
 Two such girls for a lover
As the two Sister Graces of Berry .

 I could sing in their praise
  Heliconian lays,
That surpass Della Crusca's , or Merry's .
 Even Jerningham's Muse
 Would the conflict refuse
Of a Ballad with me on the Berrys .

 Not a fault I can blame,
 But the vice of their name,
For to rhyme it—is difficult very:
 Yet, by them still inspir'd,
 I could never be tir'd
Of thus ringing the changes on Berry .

 May Italian skies
 Claim no longer this prize:
But, with bloom like a peach or a cherry,
 May Love's true colour speak
 In the rose of their cheek,
Till they're stripp'd of the surname of Berry .
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