 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
238
Barton Meer;
or, The Suffolk Garland.
A Song.
Anno 1745.
Let doggrel poets, one and all,
Resound the fame of Houghton hall;
Or Eustone—seat of noble peer—
I'll sing the praise of—Barton Meer.
Resound the fame of Houghton hall;
Or Eustone—seat of noble peer—
I'll sing the praise of—Barton Meer.
Woods, gardens, groves, (th'eternal themes
Of bard who sips Pierian streams)
Make Paradise thro'out the year,
And give the prize to—Barton Meer.
Of bard who sips Pierian streams)
Make Paradise thro'out the year,
And give the prize to—Barton Meer.
No longer gaping crouds shall go
Clermont to view—or visit Stow—
But all with eager haste repair,
To feast their Eyes—at Barton Meer.
Clermont to view—or visit Stow—
But all with eager haste repair,
To feast their Eyes—at Barton Meer.
239
What tho' no antique statues grace,
Nor temples consecrate the place;
None can such useless pomp revere,
Who taste the sweets of—Barton Meer.
Nor temples consecrate the place;
None can such useless pomp revere,
Who taste the sweets of—Barton Meer.
Its owners, affable and free,
(Such owners you shall seldom see)
With open smiles, and heartsome cheer,
Make sorrow glad—at Barton Meer.
(Such owners you shall seldom see)
With open smiles, and heartsome cheer,
Make sorrow glad—at Barton Meer.
Or laugh—or sing—or talk—or play—
Or walk—or ride—to pass the day—
Probatum est—you can't be freer,
Than you may be—at Barton Meer.
Or walk—or ride—to pass the day—
Probatum est—you can't be freer,
Than you may be—at Barton Meer.
No noisy mirth, nor froward spleen,
Intrude to marr the blissful scene;
No matrimonial strife is here,
To wound the peace—of Barton Meer.
Intrude to marr the blissful scene;
No matrimonial strife is here,
To wound the peace—of Barton Meer.
No party feuds, nor foul debate,
About the army—church—or state;
Whether we've peace, or war, next year,
Is much the same—at Barton Meer.
About the army—church—or state;
240
Is much the same—at Barton Meer.
Happy the man, and he alone,
He, who can call such joys his own;
Who from life's troubled sea can steer,
And end his days at—Barton Meer.
He, who can call such joys his own;
Who from life's troubled sea can steer,
And end his days at—Barton Meer.
When Englishmen no more complain,
When virtue dwells in Drury lane;
Then shall my Muse this theme forbear,
Nor sing the praise of—Barton Meer.
When virtue dwells in Drury lane;
Then shall my Muse this theme forbear,
Nor sing the praise of—Barton Meer.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |