Poor Corydon could read no more,
But, in a rage the letter tore,
And kick'd the fragments round the floor: | } |
Toss'd some things up, and some things down,
Curs'd both the Country and the Town;
With pots and pans did battle rage—
Drove the geraniums from the stage,
And wish'd no object now to see
Of ruralized felicity. |
| |
The country letter turn'd the tide
To rush upon his wounded pride:
At once he thought it more than folly
Thus to have offer'd love to Molly.
Nay, he began to smile at length;
And, to regain becoming strength,
He took to the well-known resort
Of season'd dish and good Old Port: |
When as he sat, with uplift eyes,
And, thro' the window, view'd the skies,
He ventur'd to soliloquize. | } |
| |
"My genteel folk I have declin'd,
At least, the sort which I could find;
And just as much dispos'd to sneeze
At all my Rural Deities:
But still I've got a heap of Cash,
And, while it lasts, will make a Dash!
But here one firm resolve I make,—
I never will my Elbow shake; |
And if I take care not to play,
I shall get something for my pay:
It will not all be thrown away! | } |
Who knows what Cupid, too, may do?
For I may win if I should woo;
And e'en, in spite of this same Hump,
Fortune may turn me up a trump.
—My standard now shall be unfurl'd,
And I will rush into the world:
Nay, when I have the world enjoy'd,
With emptied purse and spirits cloy'd,
I then can trip it o'er the main:
Valcour will take me back again;
Once more his humble friend receive,
With all the welcome he can give:
We know not what from ill may screen us,
And I, once more, shall be Quæ Genus."
—He spoke, and seem'd to close his plan
Of keeping up the Gentleman. |
| |
The Sun had sunk beneath the west,
To go to bed and take his rest,
As Poets feign, in Thetis lap,
Where he ne'er fails to have a nap;
When, with his second bottle rallied,
Our Hero rose, and out he sallied
In search of any lively fun,
That he, perchance, might hit upon.
—As through a court he chanc'd to pass,
He saw a gay, well-figur'd lass,
Who, in her floating fripp'ry shone,
With all the trim of fashion on.
She had descended from a coach,
And did a certain door approach,
With tripping step and eager haste,
When soon th' illumin'd arch she pass'd:
And still he saw, in height of feather,
Small parties enter there together,
While jovial gentlemen appear'd,
Who, as they came, each other cheer'd.
—He asked, where these fine Ladies went?
The watchman said,—"For merriment;
And should a little dancing fit you,
A crown, your honour, will admit you."
—The 'Squire then rapp'd, the door was op'd,
He gave his coin, and in he popp'd:
The music sounded in the hall,
And smiling faces grac'd the ball,
Where, as he lov'd a merry trip
With some gay Miss he chose to skip,
But as they Waltz'd it round in pairs
A noise was heard upon the stairs,
And strait a magistrate appear'd
With solemn aspect; while, uprear'd,
Official staves in order stand,
To wait the laws' so rude command.
—Sad hurry and confusion wait
On this their unexpected state;
When there broke forth, as it might seem,
From snow-white throats, a fearful scream;
Nor, to add horror, was there wanting
Some strong appearances of fainting:
But Justice, with its iron brow
Unfeeling scowl'd on all the show.
In shriller tones the ladies cried,
In diff'rent key the beaux replied,
Though some consoling bev'rage quaff,
Give a smart twirl, nor fear to laugh:
While coarser voices,—"hold your tongue,
Pack up your alls and come along."
Then, of fair culprits full a score,
And of their dancing partners more,
Beneath stern power's relentless rod,
Were rang'd, and order'd off to Quod.
They march'd away in long procession
To take the fruits of their transgression:—
Staffmen did at their head appear,
And watchmen lighted up the rear.
Our Hero felt the ridicule
Of having idly play'd the fool,
And, as he handed on his Belle,
He could not but compare the smell
That rotten root and trodden leaf
Do to th' offended senses give
Of those who, by the lamp's pale light,
Through Covent-Garden stroll at night,
With all the garlands which he weav'd
Ere Molly's letter was receiv'd:
And all the fragrance of the flowers
He thought to cull in Molly's bowers;
Nay, which, but the preceding morning,
His promis'd hopes had been adorning.
It was indeed a noisome change,
O it was strange, 'twas passing strange!
But still the watch-house made amends,
Such as they were, they gave him friends.
Which here, I'm not suppos'd to think
Were such as save from ruin's brink;
But lively sprites who have a taste
To hurry on the stream to waste.
Thus, when the welcome morn was come,
And Justice sent the party home;
He and two blades of certain feather
Propos'd to pass the day together:
The one, more grave, declar'd his breed,
Famous on t'other side the Tweed,
The other lively, brisk and airy,
Boasted his birth in Tipperary;
Though whether this were truly so,
'Tis from their words alone we know:
But they were easy, free and jolly,
Decided foes to melancholy,
And seem'd well-form'd to aid a day
In passing pleasantly away.
—But first the Trio thought it best
To snatch some hours' refreshing rest, |
When, as it was in Summer's pride,
They pass'd their jovial hours beside
The crystal Thames imperial tide; | } |
And as the river roll'd along,
Made the banks echo with their song.
—At length it was a rival jest
Who of the three could sing the best.
—The sturdy Scot the song began,
And thus th' harmonious contest ran. |
| |
Wallace, who fought and bled, he sung,
Whose name dwells on a nation's tongue.
The 'Squire, in boist'rous tone declar'd,
And neither lungs nor quavering spar'd,
That Britain triumph'd o'er the waves
And Britons never would be slaves.
Then Erin's Son, with sweeter voice,
Exclaim'd, "I'll make you both rejoice;
O with a famous song I'll treat you,
And then you both shall say I've beat you
Your verses are old-fashion'd prosing,
My song is of my own composing;
And though 'tis to lov'd Erin's fame,
To all three Kingdoms 'tis the same." |
The hearers both politely bow'd,
When he, of his fam'd subject proud,
Pour'd forth his accents deep and loud. | } |