To fix her, 'twere a task as vain
To count the April drops of rain,
To sow in Afric's barren soil,-
Or tempests hold within a toil.
I know it, friend, she's light as air,
False as the fowler's artful snare,
Inconstant as the passing wind,
As winter's dreary frost unkind.
She's such a miser, too, in love,
Its joys she'll neither share nor prove;
Though hundreds of gallants await
From her victorious eyes their fate.
Blushing at such inglorious reign,
I sometimes strive to break my chain;
My reason summon to my aid,
Resolve no more to be betray'd.
Ah, friend! 'tis but a short-lived trance,
Dispell'd by one enchanting glance;
She need but look, and I confess
Those looks completely curse or bless.
So soft, so elegant, so fair,
Sure something more than human's there:
I must submit, for strife is vain,
'Twas destiny that forged the chain.
KATE OF ABERDEEN.
THE silver moon's enamour'd beam,
Steals softly thro' the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go balmy sleep,
('Tis where you've seldom been),
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid of love :
And see-the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,—
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love :
For see the rosy May draws nigh,
She claims a virgin Queen;
And hark, the happy shepherds cry,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
John Cunningham.
THESE Springs were maidens once that loved :
But lost to that they most approved :
My story tells, by Love they were
Turn'd to these springs which we see here:
The pretty whimperings that they make,
When of the banks their leaves they take,
Tell ye but this, they are the same,
In nothing changed but in their name.
WELL met, pretty nymph, says a jolly young swain
To a lovely young shepherdess crossing the plain;
Why so much in haste?—now the month it was May-
May I venture to ask you, fair maiden, which way?
Then straight to this question the nymph did reply,
With a blush on her cheek, and a smile in her eye,
I came from the village, and homeward I go,
And now, gentle shepherd, pray why would you know?
I hope, pretty maid, you won't take it amiss,
If I tell you my reason for asking you this;
I would see you safe home-(now the swain was in love!)--
Of such a companion if you would approve.
Your offer, kind shepherd, is civil, I own,
But I see no great danger in going alone;
Nor yet can hinder, the road being free
For one as another, for you as for me.
No danger in going alone, it is true,
But yet a companion is pleasanter too;
And if you could like (now the swain he took heart)
Such a sweetheart as me, why we never would part.
O that's a long word, said the shepherdess then,
I've often heard say there's no minding you men.
You'll say and unsay, and you'll flatter, 'tis true!
Then to leave a young maiden's the first thing you do.
O judge not so harshly, the shepherd replied,
To prove what I say I will make you my bride.
To-morrow the parson (well said, little swain !)
Shall join both our hands, and make one of us twain.
Then what the nymph answer'd to this isn't said,
The very next morn, to be sure, they were wed.
Sing hey-diddle,-ho-diddle,-hey-diddle-down-
Now when shall we see such a wedding in town?
AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.
WHILE at the helm of State you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign Courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those counsels that they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen,
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I!
The family that dines the latest
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
'Fore him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe ;
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles-in the air?
We're often taught, it doth behove us
To think those greater who're above us;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story;
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This, too, doth in my favour speak;
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance,
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance, Familiar you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended;
For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters
Will serve us great, but humble creatures.
Suppose a secretary o' this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop :
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French are in my head,
Latin I write, and Greek--I read.
If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least;
What fittest for ?-you know, I'm sure,
I'm fittest for-a sinecure.
TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.
GREAT Sir, as on each levée day
I still attend you-still you say—
I'm busy now, to-morrow come;
To-morrow, sir, you're not at home;
So says your porter, and dare I
Give such a man as him the lie?
In imitation, sir, of you,
I keep a mighty levée too:
Where my attendants, to their sorrow,
Are bid to come again to-morrow.
To-morrow they return, no doubt,
But then, like you, sir, I'm gone out.
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