 | Poems by Mrs Grierson (1755) |  |
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.
| Poems by Mrs Grierson (1755) | |