The Calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him:--

"What news? what news? your tidings tell, Tell me you must and shall-- Say why bare-headed you are come, Or why you come at all?"

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke, And thus unto the Calender In merry guise he spoke:--

"I came because your horse would come; And if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road."

The Calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in;

Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit:-- "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

But let me sc.r.a.pe the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case."

Said John--"It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware."

So, turning to his horse, he said-- "I am in haste to dine; 'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine."

Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast!

For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying a.s.s Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig!

He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big!

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell-- "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels!-- The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly.

With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:--

"Stop thief! stop thief--a highwayman!"

Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pa.s.s'd that way Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short s.p.a.ce; The toll-men thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!

WILLIAM COWPER.

_To a Child of Quality_

Five Years Old, 1704, the Author Then Forty.

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, Were summoned by her high command To show their pa.s.sion by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took, Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation, Forbid me yet my flame to tell; Dear Five-years-old befriends my pa.s.sion, And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds With all the tender things I swear; Whilst all the house my pa.s.sion reads, In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame; For, though the strictest prudes should know it, She'll pa.s.s for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move, 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love When she begins to comprehend it.

Matthew Prior.

_Charade_

(Campbell.)

(Thomas Campbell, the Poet.)

Come from my First, ay, come!

For the battle hour is nigh: And the screaming trump and thundering drum Are calling thee to die!

Fight, as thy father fought!

Fall, as thy father fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;-- So--onward--and farewell.

Toll ye my Second, toll!

Fling wide the flambeau's light, And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night.

With the wreath upon his head, And the cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;-- So--take him to his rest Call ye my Whole,--ay, call The lord of lute and lay!

And let him greet the sable pall With a n.o.ble song to-day!

Ay, call him by his name!

Nor fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

_A Riddle_

(A Book.)

I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm old, I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold.