The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

I try t'excel in legendary tale,
The lady, gentleman, and miss, of rhime;
In vain, alas! my creeping efforts fail!
Far, far unequal to their march sublime.

CANTO I.

‘Turn, farmer, turn thy horse's head,
And taste my ale so bright,’
Cried Boniface, whose sign display'd
The lion in his might.

Yet how unlike the royal beast,
Who for his phiz ne'er sat?
Wherefore deriding tongues did call
The sign, the Old Red Cat!

Yea, much unlike indeed was it!
Jove's eagle and a gander,
Matthias and the tuneful Pope,
Lord Rolle and Alexander.

‘Who boasts such ale?’ quoth Boniface;
‘No landlord that draws breath.
A gallon I could fairly drink,
Ev'n in the pangs of death!’

Young Orson from his horse leap'd off,
And shook the landlord's hand,
Then sought a room to taste this ale,
The best in all the land.

The landlord had a red round face,
Which some folks said, in fun,
Resembled his Red Lion's phiz;
And some, the rising sun.

Large slices from his cheeks and chin,
Like beef-steakes, one might cut;
And then his paunch, for goodly size,
Beat any brewer's butt.

This landlord was a boozer stout,
A snuff-taker and smoker;
And 'twixt his eyes a nose did shine
Bright as a red-hot poker.

Were gunpowder put on his snout,
Nor flint it would require,
And steel, to make the sable grains
Flash off in sudden fire.

Thus when we see a nose so red,
It is as day-light clear,
That ruby nose is not maintain'd
On water or small beer.

Young Orson was a comely youth,
Stout as an oaken tree;
A farm he had in Taunton Vale
And money, too, had he!

Whene'er he spied a buxom lass,
His chops began to water;
And as the kites on pigeons pounce,
The rogue was sure to pat her.

But he his neck to wedlock's yoke
Would not consent to bow;
Quoth he, ‘The man who milk can buy,
Should never keep a cow!’

Of lovely maids at least a score
Did rue his wanton tricks!
A mournful band! a sable list!
Like moles between cleft sticks!

Now at the table Boniface
And Orson sat them both,
While 'twixt the twain a pewter-pot,
Did mantling foam with froth.

Now Orson rais'd the pewter-pot,
And blew the froth away:
And having drank, he smack'd his lips,
And cheerily did say;

‘Old Boniface, thou'rt in the right!
Thy taste is sound enough;
I wish my cellar now could boast
A tun of such rare stuff!

Sweet Ellen gave the pot with hands
That might with thousands vie;
Her face, like veal, was white and red,
And sparkling was her eye.

Her shape the poplar's easy form,
Her neck the lily's white,
Soft heaving, like the summer wave,
And lifting rich delight.

And o'er this neck of globe-like mould,
In ringlets wav'd her hair:
Ah, what sweet contrast for the eye,
The jetty and the fair!

Her lips like cherries moist with dew,
So pretty, plump, and pleasing!
And like the juicy cherry, too,
Did seem to ask for squeezing.

Yet Ellen modest was withal,
And kept her charms in order;
For beauty is a dangerous gift,
And apt to breed disorder.

Yet what is beauty's use, alack!
To market can it go?
Say, will it buy a loin of veal,
Or rump of beef? No, no.

Will butchers say, ‘Choose what you please,
Miss Nancy and Miss Betty?’
Or gard'ners, ‘Take my beans and peas,
Because ye are so pretty?’

Too oft, alas! a daughter's charms
Increase a parent's cares;
For daughters and dead fish, we find,
Were never keeping wares.

Yet spotless was this virgin's heart—
Quite spotless, too, her fame!
And if a swain but kiss'd her neck,
It show'd the blush of shame!

For once a saucy Oxford youth
Dar'd kiss it to a glow—
How like the modest blush of morn
Upon a hill of snow!

Yet blushes are exceeding scarce;
The great folk scorn to name 'em,
Since Fashion, ruling with strong sway,
Has bid all courts disclaim 'em.

Yes, yes! a blush is vastly scarce!
O fie, O fie upon't!
And when it glows, lo! Fashion calls
The virtue, mauvaise honte!

Oh! can the great for modesty
Not care a single rush!
Ah! never be a British maid
A stranger to a blush!

Ah! who can pierce the simple heart,
Give modesty a fear—
Raise with rude hands the burning blush,
And force the pearly tear?

Yet there are demons who delight
Her panting heart to wound,
Darken with Sorrow's cloud her eye,
And force the groan profound.

Ah! wanton Fashion, thou loose dame,
Who biddest ev'ry man see
The charms which darkness should conceal,
And man should only fancy.

The ankle, nay, the knee and thigh,
Are secrets now no more!
God bless us! every day of each
A man may see a score!

The bishop was not in the wrong,
But really in the right,
Who at the opera saw such things
As shock'd his holy sight.

Yet some have said, yea, loudly said,
With many a scornful jeer—
‘A poor old wither'd blinking fool,
What business had he there?’

‘If bishops and their wives will leave
Their church for wanton places;
'Tis rank hypocrisy to make
A set of prudish faces.’

Now Orson's eyes forsook the pot,
And mark'd the maid with fire;
For Ellen's fair and artless look
Did kindle high desire.

For beauty doth possess the charm
To pull abroad men's eyes,
And wake the wishes of the soul,
And bid the passions rise.

For why? Because 'tis Nature's plan
The world should be supported;
Therefore, wherever Beauty smiles,
It will be press'd and courted.

Thus amber doth attract the straws,
The loadstone draws the needle;
And drawn too are the female heels
By tabor, pipe, and fiddle.

Now Orson whisper'd to himself,
‘Gad's bob! if things go right,
With that nice girl who gave the pot
I'll sleep this very night!’

O monstrous thought! O wicked wish!
O soul-destroying sin!
Yet for his soul (O graceless youth!)
He did not care one pin.

Thus on the dolphin's beauteous scale,
The shark he opes his jaw!
Poor fish! who, ere he danger feels,
Is in the tyrant's maw.

Thus spiders when they see a fly
How bailiff-like they watch it!
And ere, poor imp, he thinks of harm,
The grimly rascals catch it.

CANTO II.

Fair Ellen liv'd with Boniface
Nor scorn'd her humble sphere;
And with unsullied fame she drew
Her customers their beer.

How neat was Ellen in her dress!
As neat as a new pin!
By this she brought full many a pound
To Boniface's inn.

Thus Goldfinches, in fields well plac'd
The distant birds engage,
And by their dainty forms and voice,,
Invite them to their cage.

And thus the pastry-cooks should do,
To sell their tarts and pies;
Put in their shop some pretty lass,
To hook in passing eyes.

For many a man, whose appetite
Desires nor pie nor tart,
May like to squeeze a charming girl,
And ogle for her heart.

Nay, milliners should do the same,
For custom if they hope;
And many a trade beside should keep
A nice tit in the shop.

And let me own, in times of yore,
When Love was seldom quiet,
But quicken'd night and day my blood,
And bred a constant riot;

I bought my garters and my gloves,
Wherever Beauty shone;
When Ugliness was in a shop,
I let that shop alone.

For beauty may be well compar'd,
I think, unto a hook;
Which, baited with a lady-bird,
Draws fishes from the brook.

Ellen was chaste as new-fall'n snow,
And modest in her air;
Unlike some lasses, common known
As is a barber's chair.

Of goodly parents was she born,
But in disguise did row,
Because a youth to her was false—
She left her vale for love.

Six years she pass'd in servitude,
At last forgot the sigh;
Her lover's image forc'd no more
The pearl-drops from her eye.

Yet many a month she ceas'd to smile,
And droop'd the languid head;
And many a lonely walk she took,
The secret tear to shed.

‘Ah! happy birds,’ she oft would sigh
Amid the tuneful grove—
‘You bear no guile within your hearts,
You break no vows of love.

‘Alas! 'tis man alone deceives:
He wins the witless heart;
Then meanly treads it in the dust,
And triumphs in his art.’

Thus in her solitary walk
Would Ellen say and sigh;
And then sweet ditties she would sing,
Of maids for love that die.

For Sorrow listens with fond ear
To Music's plaintive flow;
Devours the sweetly-dying strain,
And feeds on tales of woe.

The parish 'squire, though wedded he
Unto a lady fair,
Hath often at the Lion stopp'd,
On Ellen's charms to stare.

For married eyes, if not well watch'd,
Are very apt to stray;
For which some ladies give their lords
A lesson night and day.

And very properly I wot;
For eyes of married men
Should only on one object look,
Whereas they stare on ten.

A married man should winkers wear,
Like coach-horses and cart;
To rule the eyes, those squinting pimps
That oft seduce the heart.

For so deprav'd our sex, I've known
A man deep read in books,
Who had a jewel of a wife,
Yet kiss'd his greasy cooks.

And what did make it ten times worse,
T'increase his lady's woes;
He kept the bastards of those cooks
All underneath her nose;

Who, if she dar'd to speak or weep,
He instantly would kick her;
And oft (to use a Devonshire phrase)
The gentleman would lick her.

Ah! Matrimony, thou art like
To Jeremiah's figs;
The good were very good, the bad
Too sour to give the pigs.

Now to fair Ellen to return—
The parson of the parish,
Although his mouth was most devout,
His eyes were oft vagarish.

For oft on Boniface he call'd,
The news to ask or tell;
Hoping his ale was fresh and good,
And that his hogs were well.

And was fair Ellen in the way,
He catechis'd the maid;
Hoping she always went to church,
And like a Christian pray'd.

And gently would he squeeze her hand,
When nobody was near;
And kindly pat her rosy cheek,
With many a holy leer.

And when the parson took a draught,
He did persuade the lass
To wet her lovely lips, and leave
A kiss within the glass.

For ev'n the gravest of divines
To Beauty's empire yield;
And spite of all their zeal and grace,
Old Nick hath won the field.

Lo! Bishop Keppel felt the charm,
And waver'd from his duty:
Confirming once a nice young maid,
He gave up God for Beauty;

So press'd her head with amorous hand,
When lo, two large black pins,
That slily lurk'd within her hair,
Attack'd him for his sins.

Deep in his flesh they urg'd their way;
When, starting, the divine
Exclaim'd, ‘G---d d*mn the head! I think
The girl's a porcupine.’

Old Snuffle too, the parish clerk,
Did sometimes call for ale;
And knew not (when the maid was near)
If mild it was, or stale.

Of spectacles that rode his nose,
He wink'd through each horn'd glass;
And, goat-like, lick'd his watering lips,
That long'd to buss the lass.

Than o'er his Bible in the pew,
Of pounds I would lay ten,
Old Snuffle would much rather say,
O'er Ellen's lips, amen.

The dullest eye can beauty see,
'Tis lightning on the sight;
Indeed it is a general bait,
And man, the fish, will bite.

Now Boniface talk'd of Lord Rolle,
A lord in fight so frisky;
Who made an old dame prisoner,
And took away her whisky.

And eke on trav'lling corpses seiz'd,
As fierce as any shark;
And bullied, like a thunder-storm,
The parson and the clerk.

And now they talk'd of Sunday schools,
Once deem'd a glorious thing;
Prais'd and supported by the great,
Admir'd by queen and king.

But now 'gainst Sunday schools, alack,
The great folk turn their faces;
For fear the poor, by learning, should
Grow wiser than their graces.

For no great man indeed can bear
That man of low degree
Should read and write, since that poor man
May be as wise as he.

There is a lofty dame call'd Pride,
With corns upon her toes:
On which the mob is apt to tread,
And very oft, God knows.

Now this high dame companion is
Of lords, and dukes, and kings;
And duchesses, and eke of queens,
Indeed, and such like things.

And lo! she whispers to the great
To keep themselves aloof;
Nay, crush the poor like some sad worm
Beneath a horse's hoof.

And lo! the great her counsel take,
And ears of poor folks crop;
Nay, flog the poor at times, poor souls!
As schoolboys flog a top.

Now of a princess sweet they talk'd,
And pitied her hard fate;
‘O Lord! O Lord!’ said Boniface,
‘Heav'n keep me from high state!’

‘Poor lady!’ Orson pitying said,
‘I've seen her many a time;
And seen the baby too with tears,
And ask'd about her crime.

‘However people may invent,
Whatever folks shall say,
I won't believe—but think her still
A jewel flung away.

“Such sweetness never could offend—
Then what's her guilt?” I cry'd;
‘But folks seem'd all afraid to speak,
And shook the head, and sigh'd.’

Then Ellen said, ‘I would not be
A princess, for the world.’—
‘Thou'rt more,’ quoth Orson, ‘or may I
To Old Nick's house be hurl'd!’

‘Thou art a queen,’ exclaims the youth;
And for a kiss he starts—
‘Who! I?’ rejoin'd th' astonish'd maid—
‘Yes, thou—the queen of hearts.’

The maid receiv'd the youth's salute
With such a modest air,
As though from Mistress Stevenson's ,
The empress of Queen-square.

Now gentle reader, with thy leave,
I'll rest my tuneful tongue;
And shun of nightingales the fate,
Who die by too much song.

Actually in Ireland, where his lordship performed prodigies of valour.

A lady who keeps a boarding-school.

CANTO III.

And now they talk'd of good great men,
Who by their merits rise;
When Bishop Porteus was the theme;—
Great, though of little size:

Who, though before the Chancellor
He humbly bore the mace,
Did at the last a mitre wear;
Such Friends are Faith and Grace.

Now Boniface did loud exclaim,
For wondrous proud was he:
‘D'ye know that this same bishop's wife
No better was than me?

‘No better, though the lofty wife
Of this most grand divine!
Her father did an alehouse keep,
No better, man, than mine!

‘There Madam Porteus, a young maid,
Did draw the ale and beer;
And drew good customers, 'tis said,
Indeed from far and near.

‘When Parson Porteus trudg'd that way—
Now see how things may hap!
And, sweating, took a pint of stout
From this young maiden's tap.

‘Now Love within the pewter pot,
So wondrous is his art,
Lurk'd sly, and as the parson swill'd,
Slipp'd down into his heart.

‘At once he glow'd with furious flame,
And ey'd the comely she;
And very soon he squeez'd her hand,
For wounded much was he.

‘Thus, when the linnet flies to drink
To some fair crystal spring,
By lime-twigs quickly is he caught
And cannot move a wing.

‘Now soon as the young girl's papa
The courtship did explore,
He took them by the shoulders both,
And shov'd them both to door.

‘As Adam and his dearest Eve
Left Eden with a tear;
So Porteus with his sweetheart left
The tap-room and the beer.

‘Forth wander'd they in homely plight,
Griev'd that their plan miscarried;
But soon, in spite of poverty,
The loving pair were married.

‘Nor proud is Mistress Porteus now,
Though lofty is her lot;
For glad is she old friends to see,
And eke a pewter pot.’

Thus ended Boniface; and now
They talk'd of Hannah More,
Whose fame the bishop's trumpet sounds,
That makes a mighty roar.

Then on each other they did wink,
Which thus might be translated;
Some people may a mitre wear,
And yet be shallow-pated.

And now they prais'd the bishop's care,
Who makes it all his pride
To see the clergy well behave,
And on their cures reside.

For, lo! the bishop finds it hard
Unto their cures to pull 'em;
Though he, good man, for reasons wise,
Doth seldom preach at Fulham.

‘I fear some bishops are in fault,’
Quoth Boniface, and sigh'd—
‘They are a proud and haughty set.’—
‘Too true,’ the youth replied.

‘Over poor curates’ backs, alas!
How Jehu-like they drive!
And, Lord! how these old drones will suck
The honey of the hive!’

Of Dame Religion now they talk'd,
Belov'd by each divine;
Who thinks their wealthy patroness
All in a deep decline.

To bring her back to health again,
Of recipes a score
Good Doctor Porteus jointly wrote
With Parson Hannah More.

For, lo! the dame with these great folk
Has always been in favour;
For which they both for her would fight,
And risk their all to save her.

Most grossly was she us'd in France;
Most cruelly, alack!
Her pockets pick'd, and her best clothes
All pilfer'd from her back.

The French swore she a bastard was
Of some old canting friar;
And from her childhood known to be
A hypocrite and liar.

Her rings they robb'd, and di'monds too;
Her gold they stole by tuns;
With which they shot and powder bought,
Swords, muskets, and great guns.

Not only this, indeed, was done
By this same rabble rout;
They broke the bones of saints, and kick'd
The saintesses about.

Such was their treatment by the mob,
Such rage did Hell inspire;
If gold, they coin'd them; and, if wood,
They put them in the fire.

Old jawbones of the sainted tribes
Old teeth, old nails, old noses,
Old toes, old shoes, that wonders work'd,
As ev'ry one supposes.

Old wigs, and night-caps, gowns, and rags,
Spoon, trencher, knife and fork;
Pap-spoon, and frying-pan, and spit,
That many a marvel work.

‘Religion was a gentle maid,’
Quoth Boniface agen—
‘In the year one; but since she's spoil'd
By wicked artful men.

‘The bishops taught her to be proud,
And heap of wealth a store;
To paint her cheeks, and wear the garb
Of some sad tawdry w---.

‘I think she is too well dress'd out
By ev'ry great divine.’—
‘Indeed,’ quoth Orson with a sigh,
‘I think she goes too fine.’

Of Peter Pindar now they talk'd,
Who so divinely sings;
Renown'd from pole to pole for odes,
And compliments to kings.

Then, raptur'd, on his works they dwelt,
And on his high pretension;
Lamenting much he had not got
From majesty a pension:

While parasites, and pimps to lords,
Enjoy'd their wealth and state;
While he, poor soul, did make wry mouths
Upon an empty plate.

On which they sagely did remark,
That slight was merit's meed;
And that the sun, for one fair flow'r,
Did foster many a weed.

‘I have his works,’ quoth Boniface,
‘This moment in the house;
Pray, Farmer, did you ever read
His poem on a Louse?

‘And Apple Dumplings and chok'd Sheep,
The Pilgrims and the Peas;
The Brick-kiln, Brewhouse, Parson Young,
And Songs that ladies please?’

‘This great man's poems I have read;
Yes, over, sir, and over,’
Quoth Orson, with a wink and smile
That pleasure did discover.

‘But then,’ said he, and gave a shrug,
‘Some alderman and may'r
Swore that his impudence is such,
It bristled up their hair:

‘Said that he grins too much at courts,
And never would refrain;
And in respect of titled folk,
Was wicked as Tom Paine.

‘They call'd him ev'ry name that's bad,
Turk, Infidel, and Jew;
And wanted, when they burnt his books,
To burn the a thor too.’

‘O shameful aldermen and may'r,
To burn so sweet a bard!’
Cry'd Boniface—‘alas! alas!
'Twas very, very hard.

‘The Justice too, I do suppose,
Did hate him from his marrow;
And with as much good-will would shoot
The poet as a sparrow.

‘I hope this wondrous man of verse
Is steel'd with resolution;
As virtuous people, in all times,
Have suffer'd persecution.’

And now they talk'd of one George Rose,
Who born in low estate,
Did mount to worship and to wealth—
So very blind is fate.

Of George's mother then they talk'd,
Her hut, and dirty geer;
And said, that George allow'd his dam
But thirty pounds a year.

Poor crone, who swore she would have more,
Or, lo! his pride to sting,
She'd run to London in her rags,
And show them to the king.

But George disliketh much to hear
About his Scottish home;
Thus scabby heads, the proverb says,
For ever hate a comb.

And now of Hawkesbury they talk'd,
Who wrote in mags for hire;
Whose works, till in the chimney put,
Ne'er felt one spark of fire.

Of taxes now they talk'd, and curs'd
The emperor o'er and o'er;
And then on Paul they pour'd some gall
And very loudly swore.

‘The game laws too,’ quoth Boniface,
Provoke me to the quick;
We must not knock a pheasant down,
Although 'tis with a stick.

‘Curse on the justices, the thieves,
That send a man to jail,
For touching, with an inch of gun,
A partridge or a quail:

‘Who threat my licence too to take,
And ding, and huff, and vapour,
Because I won't be humm'd, and buy
George Rose's stupid paper !’

Now talk'd they of the princesses
Elizabeth and Mary,
Whose taste in all the polish'd arts
Is most extraordinary.

Then of the sweetness of their looks,
Their manners all so mild;
That win, where'er they pass, the heart
Of man, and maid, and child.

And let me also join my praise,
Before I further sing;
The Muse with rapture oft hath mark'd
The daughters of the king.

And if her voice could pour a strain,
To yield their hearts delight;
Lo! all Parnassus with their names
Should ring from morn to night.

Which of the two papers is meant by Boniface, we cannot ascertain; as the Sun was accustomed to lick up the leavings of the poor dead or dying True Briton, and disgorge for the benefit of the public: either of those newspapers, therefore, may be alluded to by the landlord, as their respective merits are rather beneath the dignity of criticism. We must say, indeed, that every exertion has been made, particularly by the Post-Office, to cram their trash down the throats of the nauseating people of England. A newspaper is made the test of our political principles. Is the Morning Post, or the Courier, or the Morning Chronicle called for, the man is branded with the odious name of jacobin. Yet who reads of a defeat in these ministerial hirelings? Pæans are for ever sung: British laurels neither decrease nor fade—all alive and blooming! Victory attends the chariot of every British Mars—and the fools-cap which the comquering and contemptuous enemy now and then clapped on the heads of some of our generals, has been, by the hocus pocus of a misrepresenting newspaper, converted into a triumphal crown.

CANTO IV.

Now Negress Night came solemn down
To put to roost the fowls;
To bid her bats a hunting go,
And likewise all her owls.

And eke she op'd the dreary tombs,
T'enjoy her spectre races;
Unlocking ghosts, to frighten folk
With shrouds and mealy faces.

And now amid the hags and owls,
And gliding spectres pale,
Mute silence, with her feet in felt,
Did stalk from vale to vale.

The birds their thatch and bushes sought,
Forsaking trees and springs,
To hide their slumbering heads beneath
Those downy quilts their wings.

Now Darkness with her pinions black,
All waving wide outspread,
Mov'd solemn, and with horror join'd,
Did wrap the world in shade.

Now Theft and Murder sly stole forth
From caves of dread and death,
In quest of damned deeds, to roam
The wild and spectred heath;

To meet some wanderer of the shade,
And make his life their food:
To seize his throat with ruffian grasp,
And plunge their knives in blood.

And now amid the London streets,
Poor outcasts from their home,
The female bands, ah! lost to fame,
(Sweet beauty's wrecks!) did roam.

For these, let pity heave the sigh,
And prudery stay her rage:
And rather curse seducing pimps,
The G*ff---ds of the age;

Who prowl where innocence appears,
And watch for beauty's smile;
To tear the rose-bud from its bed,
Then stamp it in the soil.

Now artfully, with rueful face,
Did Orson, cunning spark,
Step to the door, and cry, ‘It rains—
And, Lord! how dismal dark!

And then the wind it is so high,
That I can scarcely stand;
And then the sky's like murder black,
I cannot see my hand.’

‘Sleep here, my friend,’ the landlord said:
‘A bed, but not of flocks,
Is thine—of feathers nice and soft,
Pick'd all from hens and cocks.

‘Fine too the sheets—like lilies white,
And warm too is the rug;
And trust me that it has not got
A single flea or bug.

‘A little supper we will have;
And, if I'm not mistaken,
Thou likest meat—now what dost say,
My friend, to eggs and bacon?’

To which the smiling youth reply'd,
‘I'm vastly fond of hog;
And when 'tis fry'd with eggs, I vow
I know no prettier prog.’

Now Ellen, with a knife so keen,
To slice the flesh began;
And then she broke twelve new-laid eggs,
And put them in the pan.

But growing warm against the hog,
The eggs unpleasant mutter'd;
While, waxing hotter 'gainst the eggs,
The hog with fury sputter'd.

Alas! how much like man and wife!
What pity such things be!
Who at each other fiercely spit,
And often disagree.

The eggs and bacon soon were fry'd,
And plac'd upon the table;
When Orson and the landlord ate
As much as they were able.

And now the merry mug went round,
And many a tale they told;
And many a wanton joke they crack'd,
Some new, and others old.

While Ellen, busy at her work,
Seem'd not one word to hear;
But not a serious word or joke
Escap'd the maiden's ear.

For where is she, the maid, I wot,
'Mongst high or humble folk,
That liketh not a merry tale,
Nor yet a wanton joke?

Now Boniface to Orson said,
‘As we no longer munch,
Suppose, my friend, with this our ale,
We take a glass of punch?’

To which the youth did answer make,
‘Dear friend, with all my heart:
And Ellen shall the lemons squeeze,
And likewise take a part.

‘And Ellen too with us shall sit,
And take her cheerful glass;
For what is meat, and drink, and life,
Without a charming lass?’

Now Ellen did the lemons squeeze,
The sugar put, and rum in;
And made what ev'n a king would call
A bowl of liquor humming.

‘Landlord,’ quoth Orson, ‘with your leave,
And Ellen's too I mean,
I'll take a kiss from her nice lips,
That would adorn a queen.’

‘Aye,’ cry'd the landlord, ‘kiss her, man,
She's sweeter than the rose;
A kiss can do no mighty harm;
So, girl, hold up thy nose.’

Then from those cherries of delight
He kisses took a score;
And, but for decency, the rogue
Had ravish'd twenty more.

For kisses are the food of love,
Well known in ev'ry nation;
And such a dainty dish, indeed,
Will ne'er be out of fashion.

And ladies' lips the out-works I
To ladies' hearts may call;
Soon as the first are storm'd, the last
Most nat'rally will fall.

‘Now sing a song,’ said Boniface,
‘Thy best, and do not grudge it.’
‘Yes, that I will,’ the youth reply'd,
‘I've many in my budget.’

Then Orson op'd his throat, and sang,
Both loud, and sweet, and clear,
A song that much the landlord charm'd,
And caught fair Ellen's ear.

SONG,

BY ORSON.

I OWN I am fickle: to Phillida's ear
I first told the story of love;
Kiss'd her hand, press'd her lip with what ardour sincere!
And declar'd that I never would rove.

But my sighs were scarce breath'd when Chloe tripp'd by:
The nymph was no longer my boast;
From Phillida's beauty away went the sigh,
And my heart to sweet Chloe was lost.

Could I dream of a change, when Chloe was mine?
‘No, no,’ I a thousand times swore;
‘My heart cannot rove from a girl so divine;
No, no, it will wander no more.’

But Fate, who delighted to laugh at the swain,
Presented a damsel more fair;
My heart! the sad rogue, turn'd inconstant again,
And sigh'd to Corinna his pray'r.

With Corinna I swore, ‘Ev'ry hour must be blest;
These eyes shall no other pursue;’
When agen, to alarm with new tumults my breast,
Thou, Sylvia, beam'st full on my view.

But, Sylvia, I'm sure thou hast nothing to fear,
That my heart for another can pine;
Since, to make it a traitor, a girl must appear,
Whose beauty is equal to thine.

‘Now sing thy song,’ the lark-like youth
To Boniface did say;
When Boniface most loudly sung
This merry roundelay.

SONG,

BY BONIFACE.

TOPER, drink, and help the house—
Drink to ev'ry honest fellow;
Life was never worth a louse
To the man who ne'er was mellow.

How it sparkles! here it goes!
Ale can make a blockhead shine;
Toper, torchlike may thy nose
Light thy face up, just like mine!

See old Sol, I like his notion,
With his whiskers all so red;
Sipping, drinking from the ocean,
Boozing till he goes to bed;

Yet poor beverage to regale!
Simple stuff to help his race—
Could he turn the sea to ale,
How 'twould make him mend his pace!

Now Boniface to Ellen said,
‘Now for thy roundelay;’
The damsel blush'd, and hemm'd, and blush'd,
And then she sung away.

SONG,

BY ELLEN.

ADIEU to the grotto and glade!
Adieu to the song of the grove!
Since Colin is gone from the shade,
Adieu to the valley of Love!

When a garland he wove for my hair,
When he gave me his hand at the stile,
How buxom and sweet was the air!
How the fields were all cloth'd with a smile!

But Nature seems chang'd to my mind—
The fields are all dark on my eye;
Each song is a dirge on the wind,
And the flow'rs seem all drooping to die.

All alone must I wander at morn,
And lonely, at eve, a poor ghost;
While each object around me forlorn,
Will pity the peace I have lost.

Then ask me not, virgins, to stay;
With a sigh seems the zephyr to blow;
And the runlet that murmurs away,
To wind with a murmur of woe.

O ye virgins! O shepherds! farewell!
I wander in secret to pine!
May Content be the guest of your cell,
Who has long been a stranger to mine!

The youth upon her tuneful lips
Did full of rapture glote;
And seem'd so pleas'd, as though he could
Have gallop'd down her throat.

He look'd and sigh'd, and sigh'd and look'd
With longing wishful eye;
And felt his heart all flutt'ring beat,
And guess'd the reason why.

For who can see the lovely maid,
And feel not sweet desire?
With him may Life's fair prospects fade,
And Hope itself expire!

The clock, the crier shrill of time,
That tick'd behind the door,
Now with his hammer struck the bell
Twelve times, and lo! no more.

And now the fire was all put out,
Which Boniface did water;
For fear a spark might burn the house,
And make a serious matter!

For fire, permitted once to rule,
Consumeth all it handles;
Ev'n from the palaces of kings,
Down to a pound of candles.

The cat amidst the ashes purr'd
(For purs to cats belong);
While chimney-minstrels, crickets call'd,
Did join Grimalkin's song.

O gentle crickets, to your airs
I've listen'd o'er and o'er!
O lucky imps, where'er ye dwell,
That house is never poor.

Old Towzer too lay stretch'd along,
And yelping much did keep;
And with his trembling joints did chase
The rabbits in his sleep:

Eager he seem'd to hunt indeed
The nibblers to their holes:
Thus dogs can dream like gentlemen,
Although they have no souls.

Now Boniface said, ‘Sir, good night,’
And shook young Orson's fist.
‘Good night,’ agen young Orson said,
And then he Ellen kiss'd;

And on her pouting lip he left
A thousand wanton wishes:
‘Good night,’ quoth he, ‘fair maid, whose eyes
Eclipse thy pewter dishes.’

Yes, 'twas a kiss!—a kiss indeed!—
A very wanton kiss!
Which seem'd upon her mouth to say,
I long for higher bliss.

CANTO V.

Now as he kiss'd her, on her neck
A golden cross he spied:—
‘Who gave thee this?’ the starting youth,
All fraught with wonder cried.

‘A young man gave me this,’ quoth she
(And then she dropp'd a tear),
‘A youth who won my heart away,
And still to me is dear.

‘But riches forc'd him from these arms;
And men do wealth adore;
And thus he left my heart to pine,
For I was rather poor.

‘A damsel of a great estate
Did steal his heart away;
At which I left my native vale,
For there I could not stay.

‘For who can stand the scoffs and jeers
That bitter flow like gall:
So when I lost my sweetheart's love,
Alas! I lost my all.

‘Where now he lives, God only knows;
Five years it is and more,
That here in Hampshire I have dwelt,
And here my loss deplore.

‘Methought, sir, when the mug of beer
This very night I drew,
That Orson, whom I thought my own,
Did much resemble you.

‘My heart so beat, my head turn'd round;
My eyes both misty taken—
I almost dropp'd the frying-pan,
With all the eggs and bacon.’

‘My Ellen sweet,’ the youth replied,
And hugg'd her to his heart;
‘Behold that Orson thou hast lost,
And we will never part.

‘I am not married—no, my dear;
To marry I am free;
And I have search'd half England through,
To gaze again on thee.

‘But thou wert gone the Lord knows where,
And wert not to be found;
But all the neighbours said with sighs
Thou certainly wert drown'd.’

‘O Orson dear,’ the maid replied,
‘And am I in thy arms?’
‘Thou art, thou art,’ the youth rejoin'd—
And closely press'd her charms.

‘How was't I knew thee not?’ quoth she—
Quoth he, ‘I wasn't so big;
And now thou seest I wear my hair,
And then I wore a wig.’

‘Ah me! I recollect,’ quoth she,
‘Full well thy natty bob;
And then I only wore my hair,
And now I wear a mob.’

‘Sweet Ellen,’ cry'd the raptur'd youth,
‘The reason now is plain—
The mob and ribbon are the cause
I knew thee not again.

‘I think that thou art taller grown
Thy shape's so nice and clever;
And without compliment thou art
A prettier girl than ever.

‘Landlord, behold the girl for whom
I've hunted round and round.’
‘Gadsbob,’ cried Boniface, ‘what luck!
The lost sheep then is found.’

To tell the joys of both their hearts,
Would puzzle my poor pen;
But lo, they kiss'd, and sigh'd, and kiss'd,
And kiss'd and sigh'd agen.

And now they did a sixpence break,
In plight of mutual troth;
While Boniface, with happy looks,
Did smile upon them both.

‘well, now, good folks,’ quoth Boniface,
‘I'll leave you, if ye choose,
To tell your tale, while I go take
A comfortable snooze.’

Thus having said, Old Boniface
March'd, hobbling, off to bed;
And put a good red night-cap on,
Of yarn, about his head.

Night-caps of different stuff are made:
Of different colours, too—
Of flannel, and of cotton some;
Some yellow, and some blue.

Sleep is an article we want,
Although it looks like death;
Since all from mortals seem retir'd,
Except it be the breath.

How often have I said and thought,
Lost in reflection deep,
‘What pity 'tis, since life's so short,
To spend one half in sleep!

‘But then,’ quoth I unto myself,
‘Sleep calms the folks that fret;
Is kind to souls with hungry maws,
And people much in debt.

‘Nay, sleep has this advantage too,
It goodly feasts doth make;
And furnisheth rare food in dreams
We cannot find awake.’

Now Orson with his Ellen sat,
The damsel on his knee;
No loving couple in the world
Were blest like he and she.

And now they smil'd and told old tales
That happen'd when they courted;
Together when to fairs they went,
And danc'd, and play'd, and sported.

Time stole most happily away!
While Boniface, above,
Lay senseless snoring, they below,
Alive were making love.

Now morning from her clouded east
Did through the window peep
Upon the playful loving pair,
Whose eyes look'd not for sleep.

For they were otherwise employed
In oggling soft desire;
In telling stories of the heart,
And fanning Love's sweet fire.

Their eyelids did not once pick straws,
And wink and sink away;
No, no, they were as brisk as bees,
And amorous things did say.

For eyes are eloquent, though mute:
They speak all sorts of tongues;
Such very cunning things are eyes—
Such pow'r to them belongs.

Now Ellen unto Orson said,
‘Retire, my friend, to rest;
Thou with thy journey must be tir'd,
And I will seek my nest.’

‘Ah, Ellen, I feel no fatigue,’
Said Orson, with a smile;
‘I am this moment fesh as though
I had not rid a mile.

‘'Tis thou hast giv'n me spirits gay,
And made my heart so light;
Well, Ellen, now I think 'tis time
Indeed to bid good night.’

And now he took her in his arms,
And said, ‘Good night, my dear;’
When Ellen said ‘Good night’ agen,
And dropp'd the tenderest tear.

It was a tear—a precious tear,
More worth than di'monds bright;
For love and friendship form'd the drop,
That charm'd young Orson's sight.

As down her cheek this pearl did flow,
Young Orson, mad with bliss,
Quick to her cheek his lips applied,
And caught it with a kiss.

Then gallantly the young man said,
And swore of oaths a round—
‘That pearl of thine, my lovely girl,
Shall never kiss the ground.

‘O dearest Ellen, mind my words,
And mind I tell thee true:
Wherever that bright gem had dropp'd,
The ground had been Peru.

‘But I will go, since 'tis thy wish:
My angel fair, good night;
Sweet dreams to thee, my only dear,
Aye, dreams of rich delight.’

100

‘Sweet dreams unto my friend also,
With sweetest smiles,’ said she;
‘Ah, then of Ellen I must dream,’
With gallantry said he.

And now they both retir'd to rest,
Both bidding soft farewell;
And which was happiest in their dreams,
Is difficult to tell.

Now Sol had mounted up the sky
A pair of yards at least,
When from their beds the couple sprung,
And very soon were drest.

To breakfast down they happy came,
With Boniface likewise;
Who stretch'd his limbs, and yawn'd, and gap'd,
And open'd both his eyes.

For Boniface's eyes had long
The winks of Love forgot;
Preferring to the fairest maid,
A foaming pewter pot.

To tea and toast down sat they all;
And not long after tarried—
Before they went before the priest,
And happily were married.

‘And now,’ said Boniface with glee,
‘You shall not go away;
A sumptuous dinner I will give
In honour of the day.’

Now goose and turkey came, and hare,
And apple-pie and custard;
And chicken and asparagus,
And Yorkshire ham and mustard.

And friends invited to partake,
Did from the village come;
Of different ages were they all,
Some young, and aged some.

101

Within the house did mirth resound;
Without, with cheerful ray,
Sol pour'd his radiance on the roof,
And all the world was gay!

The chirping sparrows came in flocks,
And linnets with a tune;
And round in merry gambols flew,
To hail the honey-moon.

The wrens delighted cock'd their tails,
And twitter'd many an air;
While redbreasts trilling through the panes,
Peep'd in upon the pair.

And eke the pigeons, birds of love,
Did sport upon the thatch;
And coo'd and bill'd, and flapp'd their wings
In honour of the match.

No happier hours were known—so swift
The moments took their flight;
'Twas laugh and song, and gibe and joke,
And stories of delight.

At night all slily from their friends
The couple stole away;
Which night, if I don't much mistake,
Was happier than the day.

God prosper long the married state,
And give it every bliss!
And may we kiss the nymphs we please,
And please the nymphs we kiss!