“Cold comfort this, broiling and frying under a burning hot sun!” soliloquized a blind ballad-singer. And, having two strings to his bow, and one to his fiddle, he put a favourite old tune to the rack, and enforced us to own the soft impeachment of
THE BALLAD SINGER'S APOLOGY FOR GREENWICH FAIR.=
Up hill and down hill, 'tis always the same;
Mankind ever grumbling, and fortune to blame!
To fortune, 'tis uphill, ambition and strife;
And fortune obtain'd—then the downhill of life!
We toil up the hill till we reach to the top;
But are not permitted one moment to stop!
O how much more quick we descend than we climb!
There's no locking fast the swift wheels of Old Time.