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Stop, stop, John Gilpin !-Here's the house--

They all aloud did cry ;

The dinner waits, and we are tired:

Said Gilpin---So am I!

But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there ;

For why?---his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong;
So did he fly which brings me to
The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the calender's
His horse at last stood still.

The calender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,

And thus accosted him :

What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall

Say why bare-headed you are come,

Or why you come at all?

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,

And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the calender
In merry guise he spoke:

I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here,

They are upon the road.

The calender right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ;

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn
Thus showed his ready wit,
My head is twice as big as your's,
They therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dirt away,
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.

Said John—It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton,
And I should dine at Ware.

So turning to his horse, he said,
I am in haste to dine;

'Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear;

For, while he spake, a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he
Had heard a lion roar,

And gallopped off with all his might,
As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?--They were too big.

Now Mrs. Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,

She pulled out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said

That drove them to the Bell,

This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;
Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein:

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went post-boy at his heels,

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry :---

Stop thief! stop thief!---a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

236

TO THE REV. W. C. UNWIN.
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town;
Nor stopped till where he had got up,
He did again get down.

Now let us sing long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

TO THE

REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

UNWIN, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penned,

Thy name omitted in a page

That would reclaim a vicious age.

An union formed, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, or in sport,

May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,

And may as rich in comfort prove,

As that of true fraternal love.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,
The stock whereon it grows,

With flower as sweet or fruit as fair,
As if produced by nature there.

Not rich, I render what I may,
I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first essay,
Lest this should prove the last.
'Tis where it should be--in a plan,
That holds in view the good of man.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame
Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend.

ANSWER TO STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH, BY MISS CATHARINE

FANSHAWE, IN

RETURNING A POEM OF MR.

COWPER'S, LENT TO HER, ON CONDITION

SHE SHOULD NEITHER SHOW IT,

NOR TAKE A COPY.

1793.

To be remembered thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.

So Homer in the memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,

Was once preserved---a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.

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