THE LAY OF THE FIVE FINGERS. THIS little pig went to market, This little pig staid at home, This little pig had a bit of bread and butter, This little pig had none, This little pig cried, wee! wee! wee! I can't find my way home. GAMMER GURTON. A NEW MISTRESS. CALL me not, love, unkind, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste heart and quiet mind, Another mistress hence I chace, The first foe in the field, And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. LOVELACE. TO AN EDITOR. So rude and senseless are thy lays, The weary audience vows, "Tis not the Arcadian swain that sings, But 'tis his herd that lows. SHENSTONE. IN QUINQUE DIGITOS. PORCULUS ille forum se contulit; ille remansit Perfusum arripuit; nullum miser ille; sed 'eheu !' F. H. NOVUS AMOR. PARCE precor verbis, cara, indulgere severis, Quicunque instructo per campos imperat hosti B. H. D. AD EDITOREM. TAM rude carmen habes, ita sunt sine Apolline versus, (Pertæsus auditor crepat) Non est Arcadicus qui cantat arundine pastor, Armenta sunt quæ mugiunt. B. ELEGY. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. ELEGIA. DEPOSITI Sonat exequias campana diei, Incedit lentum per vaga rura pecus: Nunc oculos fallit species evanida rerum, Ni forte ex hedera vicinæ in vertice turris Subter nodosis ulmis, taxoque comanti, Mane in odorifero peramabilis aura Favoni, Illis haud iterum refovebitur igne caminus, Non balbo proles gratabitur ore parenti, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. |