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All in the land of Elex next he chaunts, How to sleek mares ftarch quakers turn gallants ; How the grave brother stood on bank so green. Happy for him if mares had never been!
Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth pfalm.
He sung of Taffey Welch, and Sawney Scot, 115 Lilly-bullero, and the Irish Trot. Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore, Or Wantley's Dragon slain by valiant Moore, The Bow'r of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?
His carols ceas’d: the list ning maids and fwains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose; and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing Ay: the giddy clown 125 Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The pow'r that guards the drunk, his sleep attends, Till, ruddy, like his face, the fun descends.
THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.
IN IMITATION OF THE POLLIO OF VIRGIL.
BY THE SAME.
Ye fylvan Muses, loftier strains recite,
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears,
his veins, He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains. He leads the staring infant through the hall, Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall; 30 Tells, how this stag through three whole countys
fled, What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled. Now he the wonders of the fox repeats, Describes the desp’rate chace, and all his cheats ; How in one day, beneath his furious speed, 35 He tir'd seven coursers of the fleetest breed; How high the pale he leapt, how wide the ditch, When the hound tore the haunches of the * witch! These stories, which defcend from son to son, The forward boy shall one day make his own. 40
* The moft common accident to Sportsmen; to hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.
Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye; How shall his fpirit brook the rigid rules, And the long tyranny of grammar-schools ? Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod, 45 Lash'd into Latin by the tingling red; No, let him never feel that smart disgrace : Why should he wiser prove than all his race? When rip’ning youth with down o’erfhades his
chin, And ev'ry female eye incites to fin;
50 The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame) With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame; The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove, Shall oft' be conscious of their stolen love. But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time, 55 When pangs and watry qualms shall own thy crime. How wilt thou tremble, when thy nipple's prest, To see the white drops bathe thy swelling breaft! Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy shame, And the young Squire forestall a father's name. When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping
hand With leveli'd harvests has beftrown the land; On fam'd St. Hubert's feast, his winding horn Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn! This memorable day his eager speed 65 Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
The time shall come, when his more folid sense With nod important shall the laws dispense; A Justice with grave Justices shall fit; He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. 80 No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace, No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace ; Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear, Nor dread the thievith net or triple spear; Poachers shall tremble at his awful name, Whom vengeance now o’ertakes for murder'd game.
Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken pow'rs, To sing his friendships and his midnight hours !
Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer, Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine ?