AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!

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_."]

SOME VERSES TO A FRIEND WHO TWICE VENTURED ON MARRIAGE.

BY THOMAS BROWN.

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 d.a.m.nable 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 princ.i.p.al 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; l.u.s.t's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner: This comes of your sinning with c.r.a.pe 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 d.a.m.n'd l.u.s.t of your Wife's t.i.tilation, 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.

A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES.

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 G.o.d, 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 A greater Miracle than this; A Visage which, with comly Grace, Did twenty _Garnets_ now outface: Nay, to the Wonder to add more, Declare unheard-of things before; And thousand Myst'ries does unfold, As plain as Oracles of old, By which we steer Affairs of State, And stave off _Britain's_ sullen Fate.

Let's then, in Honour of the Name Of _OATES_, enact some Solemn Game, Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire Beyond the charms of _Orpheus_ Lyre; Stone, Stocks, and e'ery sensless thing To _Oates_ shall dance, to _Oates_ shall sing, Whilst Woods amaz'd to t'Ecchoes ring.

And that this Hero's Name may not, When they are rotten, be forgot, We'll hang Atchievments o'er their Dust, A Debt we owe to Merits just So if Deserts of _Oates_ we prize, Let _Oates_ still hang before our Eyes, Thereby to raise our contemplation, _Oates_ being to this happy Nation A Mystick Emblem of Salvation.

THE MIRACLE.

TO THE TUNE OF "O YOUTH, THOU HADST BETTER BEEN STARVED AT NURSE."

I.

You Catholick States-men and Church-men, rejoyce, And praise Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice; None greater on Earth or in Heaven than She, Some say she's as good as the best of the Three.

Her miracles bold Were famous of old, But a Braver than this was never yet told; 'Tis pity that every good Catholick living Had not heard on't before the last Day of Thanksgiving.

II.

In _Lombardy-Land_ great _Modena's_ d.u.c.h.ess [3]

Was s.n.a.t.c.hed from her Empire by Death's cruel clutches; When to Heaven she came (for thither she went) Each Angel received her with Joy and Content.

On her knees she fell down, Before the bright Throne, And begged that G.o.d's Mother would grant her one Boon: Give _England_ a Son (at this Critical Point) To put little _Orange's_ Nose out of Joynt.

III.

As soon as our Lady had heard her Pet.i.tion, To _Gabriel_, the Angel, she strait gave Commission; She pluck'd off her Smock from her _Shoulders Divine_, And charg'd him to hasten to _England's_ fair Queen.

"Go to the Royal Dame, To give her the same, And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name, For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder, Shall keep the most Insolent Hereticks under.

IV.

"Tell _James_ (my best son) his part of the matter Must be with this only to cover my daughter; Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand, Then let him go travel to visit the Land; And the Spirit of Love Shall come from above, Though not as before, in form of a Dove; Yet down He shall come in some likeness or other (Perhaps like Count _Dada_), and make her a Mother."

V.

The Message with Hearts full of Faith was receiv'd, And the next news we heard was _Q. M._ conceiv'd; You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters, Grave Judges, Lords, Bishops, and Commons Consenters, You Commissioners all Ecclesiastical, From _M_...[4] the Dutiful to _C_...[5] the Tall, Pray Heav'n to strengthen Her Majesties Placket, For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket.

[Footnote 3: Maria Laura d'Este.]

[Footnote 4: John, Earl of Mulgrave, Lord Chamberlain of the Household.]

[Footnote 5: William, Earl of Craven.]

THE PATRIOTS.

WRIT ABOUT THE YEAR 1700.