 | Poems by Mrs Grierson (1755) |  |
241
POEMS BY Mrs. GRIERSON.
To Miss Lætitia Van Lewen
(Afterwards Mrs. Pilkington) at a Country Assize.
The fleeting birds may soon in ocean swim,
And northern whales thro' liquid azure skim:
The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake;
To dress and scandal an aversion take;
When you can in the lonely forest walk,
And with some serious matron gravely talk,
Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd,
And monstrous casks with mead and cyder fill'd;
How many hives of bees she has in store,
And how much fruit her trees this summer bore;
Or home returning in the yard can stand,
And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand:
Of each one's top-knot tell, and hatching pry,
Like Tully waiting for an augury.
And northern whales thro' liquid azure skim:
The Dublin ladies their intrigues forsake;
To dress and scandal an aversion take;
When you can in the lonely forest walk,
And with some serious matron gravely talk,
Of possets, poultices, and waters still'd,
And monstrous casks with mead and cyder fill'd;
How many hives of bees she has in store,
And how much fruit her trees this summer bore;
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And feed the chickens from your bounteous hand:
Of each one's top-knot tell, and hatching pry,
Like Tully waiting for an augury.
When night approaches, down to table sit
With a great croud, choice meat, and little wit,
What horse won the last race, how mighty Tray
At the last famous hunting caught the prey;
Surely you can't but such discourse despise,
Methinks I see displeasure in your eyes:
O my Lætitia, stay no longer there,
You'll soon forget that you yourself are fair;
Why will you keep from us, from all that's gay,
There in a lonely solitude to stay?
Where not a mortal through the year you view,
But bob-wigg'd hunters, who their game pursue
With so much ardour, they'd a cock or hare,
To thee in all thy blooming charms prefer.
With a great croud, choice meat, and little wit,
What horse won the last race, how mighty Tray
At the last famous hunting caught the prey;
Surely you can't but such discourse despise,
Methinks I see displeasure in your eyes:
O my Lætitia, stay no longer there,
You'll soon forget that you yourself are fair;
Why will you keep from us, from all that's gay,
There in a lonely solitude to stay?
Where not a mortal through the year you view,
But bob-wigg'd hunters, who their game pursue
With so much ardour, they'd a cock or hare,
To thee in all thy blooming charms prefer.
You write of belles and beaux that there appear,
And gilded coaches, such as glitter here;
For gilded coaches, each estated clown
That gravely slumbers on the bench has one;
But beaux! they're young attorneys sure you mean!
Who thus appear to your romantic brain.
Alas! no mortal there can talk to you,
That love or wit, or softness ever knew:
All they can speak of's Capias and law,
And writs to keep the country fools in awe.
And if to wit, or courtship they pretend,
'Tis the same way that they a cause defend;
In which they give of lungs a vast expence,
But little passion, thought or eloquence:
Bad as they are, they'll soon abandon you,
And gain and clamour in the town pursue.
So haste to town, if ev'n such fools you prize;
O haste to town! and bless the longing eyes.
And gilded coaches, such as glitter here;
For gilded coaches, each estated clown
That gravely slumbers on the bench has one;
But beaux! they're young attorneys sure you mean!
Who thus appear to your romantic brain.
Alas! no mortal there can talk to you,
That love or wit, or softness ever knew:
All they can speak of's Capias and law,
And writs to keep the country fools in awe.
And if to wit, or courtship they pretend,
'Tis the same way that they a cause defend;
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But little passion, thought or eloquence:
Bad as they are, they'll soon abandon you,
And gain and clamour in the town pursue.
So haste to town, if ev'n such fools you prize;
O haste to town! and bless the longing eyes.
Of your Constantia.
To the same on the same Occasion.
If my Lætitia still persists to love
The country village, and the shady grove,
The murm'ring riv'let and the turtles moan,
Despising all the grandeur of a town;
Where beauty triumphs, and where pleasure reigns,
And rounds of mirth relieve our daily pains;
Where George's mighty substitute appears,
And every face with blooming pleasure chears;
Grafton! whom never fair one saw unmov'd,
Whom ev'n great Churchill's beauteous offspring lov'd.
For him whate'er o'er all our kingdom's fine,
They in this happy place together join;
With him each warlike glittering soldier goes,
With him the tender race of whining beaux;
In short, we've here all that may hope t' engage,
One of your wit, your beauty, and your age.
The country village, and the shady grove,
The murm'ring riv'let and the turtles moan,
Despising all the grandeur of a town;
Where beauty triumphs, and where pleasure reigns,
And rounds of mirth relieve our daily pains;
Where George's mighty substitute appears,
And every face with blooming pleasure chears;
Grafton! whom never fair one saw unmov'd,
Whom ev'n great Churchill's beauteous offspring lov'd.
For him whate'er o'er all our kingdom's fine,
They in this happy place together join;
With him each warlike glittering soldier goes,
With him the tender race of whining beaux;
In short, we've here all that may hope t' engage,
One of your wit, your beauty, and your age.
If all these pow'rful arguments should fail,
I'll in the tenderest part your heart assail;
The lovely Damon languishes and dies,
Nor can revive, but by your charming eyes;
But I forgot—Mamma these lines must see,
So shall you hear no more of him from me.
I'll in the tenderest part your heart assail;
The lovely Damon languishes and dies,
Nor can revive, but by your charming eyes;
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So shall you hear no more of him from me.
| Poems by Mrs Grierson (1755) | |