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Rhapsodies

By W. H. Ireland

Ireland, W. H. (1777-1835)

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DEDICATED, By Permission, TO LADY HUNLOKE, OF WINGERWORTH, DERBYSHIRE.

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EPIGRAM On a gentleman in fear of bailiffs.

LINES Under the statue of Love, by Voltaire.

POOR POLLY, THE MAD GIRL.

SOLILOQUY OF A GARRETEER.

HYMN TO THE DEITY.

LOVE AND PRUDENCE.

EPIGRAM On a known fact.

THE LITTLE RED WOMAN,

SONG—POOR JANE.

LINES By a Poet, to the object of his idolatry.

THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

REPLY TO THE BASTARD's COMPLAINT.

ODE TO CHARITY.

LINES To the departed Spirit of a Parent.

THE WHITE LADY ;

EPIGRAM On a set of bell ringers.

LINES On hearing a person maintain that Man might have been formed less vicious.

EPITAPH, Written at the request of a friend, on his much-lamented wife.

LINES On a happy union.

THE ABBEY PORCH, AND MELANCHOLY MAN'S CONTEMPLATION.

BALLAD.

EPIGRAM On a country judge.

THE MISTRESS's QUESTION.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

ON THE DEATH OF A FEMALE FRIEND,

ON THE OAK IN PENSHURST PARK,

WILLY, THE FORSAKEN SWAIN.

THE QUESTION RESOLVED.

LINES From Age to Youth.

CUPID AND THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

EMPLOYMENT FOR A MISTRESS AND A WIFE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

CRAZY TOM, THE BEDLAMITE.

LINES Addressed to a young couple on the celebration of their nuptials.

TO AN ABSENT MISTRESS.

A LOVER's KISS.

ADVICE OF FRIENDSHIP.

THE LOVER's REPLY.

PARODY, In answer to the former.

LINES On following a lady with a beautiful turned ancle.

LINES On hearing a young Lady sing the celebrated mad song composed by Purcell.

BALLAD IMITATED.

LINES To a Mistress, who fled every worldly consideration for him she loved.

FROM THE FRENCH OF VOLTAIRE.

ANSWER, In 1802

A BALLAD, OF EDWARD AND ELGIVA, The Nun of St. Agatha.

LINES Addressed to the admirers of aerial excursions;

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86

BALLAD.

THE WILLOW.

Ah, willow, willow! droop with me,
Still bend thy verdant head,
For I have lost my own true love,
Ah! wherefore is she fled?
Sad willow tree,
She's gone from me,
So, willow, I will weep with thee.

The silver stream which bathes thy root,
Is emblem of my heart,
It gently murmurs as it glides;
I moan love's cruel smart.
So willow weep,
When cold I sleep,
And shade me in the grave full deep.

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For round thee still the breeze shall moan;
Thou still wilt droop thine head,
And, weeping, shade the friendly turf
That shrouds me when I'm dead.
So, willow tree,
I'll sit by thee,
Thou soother of my misery.