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- Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry - 3/10 -

Thou art a Creature of my own Creation; Then swallow this without Capitulation. If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter, And make the People for your Sake to mutter, For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know, G------fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.



O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign, New People fill the Land now thou art gone, New Gods the Temples, and new Kings the Throne. Scotland and thou did each in other live, Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive. Farewell! who living didst support the State, And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.



A certain Priest had hoarded up A mass of secret Gold. And where he might bestow it safe He knew not to be bold.


At last it came into his Thought To lock it in a Chest Within the Chancel; and he wrote Thereon, "_Hic Deus est_."


A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind Did long for such a Prey, Respecting not the Sacred Words That on the Casket lay,


Took out the Gold, and blotting out The Priest's Inscript thereon, Wrote, "_Resurrexit, non est hic_": "Your God is rose and gone."


Ah! the shepherd's mournful fate! When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate, Nor dare disclose his anguish. Yet eager looks, and dying sighs, My secret soul discover, While rapture trembling thro' my eyes Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance; the redd'ning cheek, O'erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air, So artfully beguiling! [2] Thy every look and every grace So charms whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase Still will my hopes pursue thee; Then when my tedious hours are past Be this last blessing given, Low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of heaven.

[Footnote 2: "_Ars celare artem_."]



The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean, He always in danger, she always in motion; And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase Twice ventures the Drowning, and, Faith, that's a hard case. Even at our Weapons the Females defeat us, And Death, only Death, can sign our _Quietus_. Not to tell you sad stories of Liberty lost, Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost; That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station, Sutes no other States or Degrees in the Nation. The _Levite_ it keeps from Parochial Duty, For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty? The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble, And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double. 'Twas invented, they tell you, to keep us from falling; Oh the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwauling! How it palls in your Gain; but, pray, how do you know, Sir, How often your Neighbour breaks in your Enclosure? For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage, You must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg. If at night you're inactive, or fail in performing, Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed, next Morning; Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner: This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner. Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally, And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily; And still you must charge--O blessed Condition!-- Tho' you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition: Till at last the poor fool of a mortified man Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan. Fire, Flood, and Female, begin with a letter, But for all the World's not a Farthing the better. Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble, If into Flames store of Water you tumble; But to cure the damn'd Lust of your Wife's Titilation, You may use all the Engines and Pumps in the Nation, As well you may p---- out the last Conflagration. And thus I have sent you my Thoughts of the matter; You may judge as you please; I scorn for to flatter: I could say much more, but here ends the Chapter.


Of all the Grain our Nation yields In Orchard, Gardens, or in Fields, There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common, Its Worth till now was known to no Man. Not _Ceres_ Sickle e're did crop A Grain with Ears of greater hope: And yet this Grain (as all must own) To Grooms and Hostlers well is known, And often has without disdain In musty Barn and Manger lain, As if it had been only good To be for Birds and Beasts the Food. But now by new-inspired Force, It keeps alive both Man and Horse. Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess E'en what it is thou wouldst express: It is not Barley, Rye, nor Wheat, That can pretend to do the Feat: 'Tis _Oates_, bare _Oates_, that is become The Health of _England_, Bane of _Rome_, And Wonder of all Christendom. And therefore _Oates_ has well deserv'd To be from musty Barn prefer'd, And now in Royal Court preserv'd, That like _Hesperian_ Fruit, _Oates_ may Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day, Which is but just retaliation For having guarded a whole Nation. Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands 'Twixt _Berwick_ Walls and _Dover_ Sands, The Oak itself (which well we stile The Pride and Glory of our Isle), Must strike and wave its lofty Head. And now salute an Oaten Reed, For surely Oates deserves to be Exalted far 'bove any Tree. The Agyptians once (tho' it seems odd) Did worship Onions for their God, And poor Peelgarlick was with them Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem. What would they then have done, think ye, Had they but had such _Oates_ as we, _Oates_ of such known Divinity? Since then such good by _Oates_ we find, Let _Oates_ at least be now enshrin'd; Or in some sacred Press enclos'd, Be only kept to be expos'd; And all fond Relicks else shall be Deem'd Objects of Idolatry. Popelings may tell us how they saw Their _Garnet_ pictur'd on a Straw. 'Twas a great Miracle, we know, To see him drawn in little so: But on an _Oaten_ stalk there is

Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry - 3/10

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