All in the land of Essex next he chaunts, How to fleek mares ftarch quakers turn gallants; How the grave brother food on bank so green. Happy for him if mares had never been! Then he was feiz'd with a religious qualm, And on a fudden fung the hundredth pfalm. He fung of Taffey Welch, and Sarney Scot, 115 Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot. Why fhould I tell of Bateman or of Shore, His carols ceas'd: the lift'ning maids and swains Seem ftill to hear fome soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rofe; and, as he reels along, Swears kiffes sweet should well reward his fong. Line 109. A Song of Sir J. Denham's. See his Poems. 112. Et fortunatam, fi nunquam armenta fuissent, Pafiphaen. VIRG. 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam nifi, &c. VIRG. 117. Old English ballads. THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE. AN ECLOGUE. IN IMITATION OF THE POLLIO OF VIRGIL. BY THE SAME. 5 Yɛ fylvan Muses, loftier strains recite, Beagles and spaniels round his cradle ftand, 15 With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow, The bee shall fip the fragrant dew from flow'rs, 20 26 His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears; How, when youth ftrung his nerves, and warm'd his veins, He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains. He leads the ftaring infant through the hall, Points out the horny fpoils that grace the wall; 30 Tells, how this ftag through three whole countys fied, 35 What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled. *The most common accident to Sportsmen; to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare. Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye; How fhall his spirit brook the rigid rules, And the long tyranny of grammar-schools? Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod, Lafh'd into Latin by the tingling red; No, let him never feel that smart disgrace: Why should he wiser prove than all his race? 45 When rip'ning youth with down o'ershades his chin, And ev'ry female eye incites to fin; 50 The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame) 55 When pangs and watry qualms shall own thy crime. How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's preft, To see the white drops bathe thy fwelling breast! Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy shame, And the young Squire foreftall a father's name. When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping hand With levell'd harvests has beftrown the land; Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn! Shall urge with bloody heel the rifing steed. 65 O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate, 70 75 The time fhall come, when his more folid fenfe With nod important shall the laws dispense; A Justice with grave Justices shall fit; 80 He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. Affift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken pow'rs, 85 Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer, Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine? |