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His little sister weeping walk'd
The green-wood path to meet her brother;
They sought him east, they sought him west,
They sought him all the forest thorough;
They only saw the cloud of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look-
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west
And search no more the forest thorough;
For, wandering in the night so dark,
He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow-
I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
-The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

304

HENRY FIELDING

(1707-1754]

A HUNTING SONG
THE dusky night rides down the sky,

And ushers in the morn;
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
The huntsman winds his horn,

And a-hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws

Her arms, and begs his stay;

My dear, it rains, and hails, and snows,
You will not hunt to-day?'

But a-hunting we will go.

'A brushing fox in yonder wood

Secure to find we seek:
For why? I carried, sound and good,
A cartload there last week,

And a-hunting we will go.'
Away he goes, he fies the rout,

Their steeds all spur and switch,
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
And some thrown in the ditch;

But a-hunting we will go.

At length his strength to faintness worn,

Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then, hungry, homeward we return,
To feast away the night.

Then a-drinking we will go.

CHARLES DIBDIN

(1745-1814]

305

Tom BOWLING

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For Death has broached him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft;
Faithful below he did his duty,

And now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare;
His friends were many and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair:

And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah, many's the time and oft!
But mirth is turned to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, who all commands,
Shall give, to call Life's crew together,

The word to 'pipe all hands.'
Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches,

In vain Tom's life has doffed;
For though his body's under hatches,

His soul is gone aloft.

SAMUEL JOHNSON

[1709-1784]
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET

306

CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline

Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,

See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,

And lonely want retired to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,

No petty gain disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round,

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the eternal Master found

The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day, the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
His frame was firm-his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,

And freed his soul the nearest way.

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LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty,

Ling'ring year, at length is flown;
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,

Great (Sir John), are now your own.

Loosen'd from the minor's tether,

Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,

Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,

All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,

Show the spirits of an heir.

All that prey on vice and folly,

Joy to see their quarry fly;
There the gamester, light and jolly,

There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,

Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,

Bid them come and take their fill.

When the bonny blade carouses,

Pockets full, and spirits high-
What are acres ? What are houses ?

Only dirt, or wet or dry.

Should the guardian, friend, or mother,

Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,

You can hang or drown at last!

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

(1728-1774]
WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS

308

WREN lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray,--
What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover

And wring his bosom, isto dic.

309

RETALIATION OF old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,

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