Classic Poem

I.

To thee, Dear Tunstall , tho' unknown,
An artless Muse applies,
Who is, since thy Misfortunes, grown
As useless as her Eyes,
Whose Tears upon these Lines distil,
They drown my Verse , and flag my Quill .
With a fa, la , &c.

II.

How many Lovers have I lost,
With Thoughts of thy Distress,
My Colour 's chang'd, my Arms are crost
Neglected is my Dress ;
A sable Hood my Visage shades,
Which us'd to sparkle in these Glades .
With a fa , &c.

III.

No More my Fingers touch the Strings ,
As they were wont to do,
My Heart is sunk, and sadly sings,
As if a Pris'ner too;
The Play , the Court , the Park the Ring
No Aids afford, no Comfort bring.
With a fa , &c.

IV.

My Lyre , upon the Willow hung,
Will found alas! no more;
Dead to the Livelyer Airs I sung,
In happier Days before;
Nor will it e'er renew its Strain ,
Whilst bound in Shackles you remain.
With a fa, la , &c.

V.

But, 'midst the Grief my Soul sustains,
It is a sweet Allay,
To see thy Spirits , press'd with Chains ,
So unconcern'd and gay:
The God of Wit to thee repairs,
And sweetly Chants to Lull thy Cares .
With a fa , &c.

VI.

He makes the gloomy Prison bright,
And sings thee to Repose;
He sooths the Honours of the Night ,
And softens all thy Woes:
The FREE, with envying Eyes look on,
And, thus to Sing , would be undone .
With a, fa , &c.

VII.

If Ale such Notions can produce,
Which is a muddy Stream ,
What would the brisk enliv'ning Juice ,
And some diviner Theme ?
Such Strains from TUNST ALL then would run;
Which POPE, or ADDISON might own.
With a fa , &c.

VIII.

What e'er the Poets may report,
'Tis in the MARSHALSEA ,
The willing Muses keep their Court ,
In Complisance to Thee :
They quit Parnassus for thy Cell ,
And sure, I think they've chosen well.
With a fala , &c.

IX.

Their Horse , without a Bit or Reign
Submit to thy Command:
Aloft he soars, then skims the Plain,
Obedient to thy Hand:
Oh! would the Steed my Verse obey,
His Wings would Tunstall bear away.
With a fa, la , &c.

X.

Then, Incense should his Nostrils fill
With Clouds of Grateful Fume ,
Thy Numbers should be his Regale ,
And CLIO be his Groom ;
His Manger should of Gold be made,
And all the Eloor with Diamonds laid.
With a fa, la , &c;