With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;
With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine,
To drink the king’s health in as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.
When the days are grown short, and it freezes and snows,
May I have a coal fire as high as my nose;
A fire (which once stirred up with a prong),
Will keep the room temperate all the night long.
May I govern, &c.
With a courage undaunted may I face my last day;
And when I am dead may the better sort say—
‘In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
He’s gone, and he leaves not behind him his fellow!’
May I govern, &c.
ROBIN HOOD’S HILL.
[Ritson speaks of a Robin Hood’s Hill near Gloucester, and of a ‘foolish song’ about it. Whether this is the song to which he alludes we cannot determine. We find it in Notes and Queries, where it is stated to be printed from a MS. of the latter part of the last century, and described as a song well known in the district to which it refers.]
Ye bards who extol the gay valleys and glades,
The jessamine bowers, and amorous shades,
Who prospects so rural can boast at your will,
Yet never once mentioned sweet ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’
This spot, which of nature displays every smile,
From famed Glo’ster city is distanced two mile,
Of which you a view may obtain at your will,
From the sweet rural summit of ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’
Where a clear crystal spring does incessantly flow,
To supply and refresh the fair valley below;
No dog-star’s brisk heat e’er diminished the rill
Which sweetly doth prattle on ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’
Here, gazing around, you find objects still new,
Of Severn’s sweet windings, how pleasing the view,
Whose stream with the fruits of blessed commerce doth fill
The sweet-smelling vale beneath ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’
This hill, though so lofty, yet fertile and rare,
Few valleys can with it for herbage compare;
Some far greater bard should his lyre and his quill
Direct to the praise of sweet ‘Robin Hood’s Hill.’