 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
148
Upon forty shillings refus'd for a Nightingal that dyed next day.
How? forty shillings proffer'd, and so oft?The Nightingal, believe me, sung aloft.
But, wouldst not take it (Frank?) had I been he,
I'de scarce have given a Noble more for thee.
What luck hadst thou? the Bird, alas, fond man,
Sung her own dirge, as does the dying Swan.
Fool! for a toy, since thou wouldst so much loose,
The dying Bird, leaves thee a living Goose,
Who, when thy sottish folly she espy'd,
Kickt up her heels for very grief and dy'd.
That thou, she wiser thought, shouldst live so long,
And part with forty shillings for a Song.
The Nightingal comes in a storm, they say
Thine rais'd a storm in thee when 't went away.
Of thy sweet Chorister thou wer't too choice,
But now thy Syren (Frank) has lost her voice.
And being dead, what is she worth? a rush?
This Bird in hand had been as well ith' bush.
Know this, and for it henceforth be my Debter,
A Bird in hand does well, but money better.
The evil Angels sure did overcome thee,
Or thou hadst never driven good Angels from thee.
Hadst thou but let their beams thy pocket gild,
Thou hadst been Crown'd, that now art chronicled.
They would have made thee sing, and drink all weathers,
But much good do ye (Frank) with your fine feathers.
149
But, where's the mony? that's upon the wing.
In earnest, this is but a sorry jest,
You, and your Bird are both dead in the nest.
Thus, ill advis'd, thou hast deny'd to day
Money for that, to morrow throwes away.
Thou hast, I tell thee true, as the case stands,
A dead commodity lyes on thy hands.
Whilst Avarice spur'd thy demands still higher,
Ile lay my life, thou hast lost money by her.
But ne're repent, nor be to passion stir'd,
For thou art rid of an unlucky Bird.
Thy Nightingal did to thy grief depart,
And left her thorn to prick thee to the heart.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |