Miscellaneous writings of the late Dr. Maginn :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Needy Knifegrinder! whither art thou going?
Rough is the road; thy wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches.

“Weary knifegrinder, little know the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, ‘Knives and
Scissors to grind O.’

“Tell me, Knifegrinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the 'squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

“Was it the 'squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes destraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

“Have you not read the ‘Rights of Man’ by Tom Paine?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”

Knifegrinder.

“Story! God bless you? I have none to tell, sir;
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

“Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish
Stocks for a vagrant.

“I should be glad to drink your honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”

Friend of Humanity.
“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first,
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance;
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast.”

[“Busy, curious, thirsty fly]

[_]

Written extempore by a Gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup.

“Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may,
Life is short and fades away.
“Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.
Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one!

Young Lady.

Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thy soul is too pure,
And thy face too fair,
To dwell with creatures
Of mortal mould,
Whose lips are warm
As their hearts are cold.
Roam, Roam
To our fairy home.
Child of Earth,
With the golden hair!
Thou shalt dance
With the Fairy Queen
O' summer nights
On the moon-lit green,
To music murmuring
Sweeter far
Than ever was heard
'Neath the morning star.
Roam, roam, &c.

Myself.

Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheek with care,
Because another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery fields in May;
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?

Should my heart be grieved or pine,
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with such goodness blest
As may gain her name of Best:
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
When they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair—
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
If she be not made for me,
What care I for whom she be?

Song by Ben Jonson.

Take, oh take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain.

Hide, oh hide those hills of snow,
Which thy rozen bosom bears;
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears;
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in these icy chains by thee.

Song: The Glasses sparkle.

The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright;
The reign of pleasure is restored,
Of ease and gay delight:
The day is gone; the night's our own,
Then let us feast the soul;
Should any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.

This world they say's a world of wo;
But that I do deny;
Can sorrow from the goblet flow?
Or pain from beauty's eye?
The wise are fools with all their rules,
Who would our joys control—
If life's a pain, I say't again,
Why drown it in the bowl.

That time flies fast the poet sings,
Then surely 'twould be wise
In rosy wine to dip his wings,
And catch him as he flies.
This night is ours: then strew with flow'rs
The moments as they roll;
If any pain or care remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.

The Widow to her Dying Child—by Matthew Child.

That sigh's for thee, thou precious one; life's tide is ebbing fast,
And o'er thy once all-joyous face death's sickly hue is cast.
Thine azure eye hath lost its ray, thy voice its buoyant tone,
And, like a flower the storm has crush'd, thy beauty's past and gone.

Another pang, and all is o'er—the pulseless heart is still,
Meekly, though sad, thy mother bows to the Almighty's will;
Grief presses heavy on my heart, my tears fall thick and fast,
But thou—thou art in heaven, my child, life's chequer'd dream is past.

The busy feet that gladly ran thy mother's smile to greet;
The prattling tongue that lisp'd her name in childhood's accents sweet;
The glossy curl that beam'd like gold upon thy snowy brow;
The lip, meet rival of the rose, O Death! where are they now?

Wither'd beneath thine icy touch; lock'd in thy dull cold sleep;
While all the joy a mother knows is silently to weep;
Or start as Fancy's echo wakes thy voice to mock her pain,
Then turn to gaze upon thy corse, and feel her grief is vain.

The grave, the dark cold grave, full soon will hide thee from my view,
While I my weary way through life in solitude pursue;
My early and my only love is number'd with the dead,
And thou—my last sole joy on earth—thou too, my boy, hast fled.

Three Goblets of Wine.

Three goblets of wine
Alone should comprise
The extent of the tipple
Of those that are wise.

The first is for health;
And the second I measure,
To be quaffed for the sake
Of love, and of pleasure.

The third is for sleep;
And, while it is ending,
The prudent will homeward
Be thinking of wending.

The fourth, not our own,
Makes insolence glorious;
And the fifth ends in shouting,
And clamour uproarious

And those who a sixth
Down their weasands are pouring.
Already are bruising,
And fighting, and flooring.

Oh! the tight little vessel,
If often we fill it,
How it trips up the heels
Of those who may swill it!