Observing how they spoke with rancour,
Took up my cause for which I thank her.
What eloquence was then display'd!
The charming things that Molly said,
Perhaps it suits not me to tell;
But faith! she spoke extremely well.
She first, with much ado, put on
A prudish face, then thus begun :
Heyday! quoth she, you let your tongue Run on most strangely, right or wrong. 'Tis what I never can connive at ; Besides, consider whom you drive at ; A person of establish'd credit, Nobody better, though I say it.
In all that's good, so tried and known, Why, Girls, he's quite a proverb grown, His worth no mortal dares dispute: Then he's your Brother too to boot.
At this she made a moment's pause,
Then with a sigh resum'd the cause.
Alas! my dears, you little know
A sailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe;
Perhaps this very hour he strays
A lonely wretch through desert ways;
Or shipwreck'd on a foreign strand,
He falls beneath some ruffian's hand:
Or on the naked rock he lies,
And pinch'd by famine wastes and dies.
Can you this hated Brother see
Floating, the sport of wind and sea ?
Can you his feeble accents hear,
Though but in thought, nor drop a tear t
He faintly strives, his hopes are fled,
The billows booming o'er his head;
He mounts upon the waves again,
He calls on us, but calls in vain ;
To death preserves his friendship true,
And mutters out a kind adieu.
See now he rises to our sight,
Now sinks in everlasting night.
Here Fanny's colour rose and fell,
And Harriot's throat began to swell;
One sidled to the window quite,
Pretending some unusual sight,
The other left the room outright;
While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain’d,
To think how artfully she feign'd.
OR, A CURIOUS JOURNAL OF FIVE DAYS. Wrote with a Pencil in a Chaise.
I've wrote you many a journal
Of travels, which I hope you'll burn all,
And now for once I write in rhyme
To tell you how I spend my time,
And what adventures may ensue
While I am hasting down to you,
On Sep. the second day I went
To London from my house in Kent; .
And, as good luck would have it, found
A friend for shire of Ebor bound:
It proving temperate, pleasant weather,
We soon agreed to go together ;
And for our ease o'er turnpike-ways,
To travel down in my post-chaise.
By learned men it is agreed,
Poets should ride the winged steed;
And therefore, thus says Betty Martin,
"Thou art no poet, that's most certain."
Thro' Kentish-town, up Highgate-hill,
Our horses move-against their will;
And, while they snuff the wholesome wind,
We cast a parting look behind,
Pleas'd t' have left yon sable cloud,
That buries millions in its shroud;
Alas! they toil, the sons of care !
And never breathe the purer air.
Thy common, Finchley, next we measure, Whose woodland views would give us pleasure, But that they many a wretch exhibit,
Too near the high road, on a gibbet ;
Hence men may guess, without much skill,
Here have been rogues-and may be still.
High Barnet pass'd, we reach the plain,
Where Warwick, haughty earl, was slain:
So perish all, as Warwick fell,
Who, 'gainst their lawful liege rebel!
Ah! passing strange, that one sweet flower
Should kindle all the rage of power!
Yet England oft has wail'd her woes,
And wept the colours of the rose.
With hungry appetites we hie on,
Where Hatfield shews the Silver Lion;
But, lo! nice steaks from rump of beef
Will soon afford us kind relief;
Of good old Port we drink a quart,
Discharge our reckoning, and depart.
Thro' sandy lanes, and deep defiles,
Where ray of Phoebus never smiles,
(Save on that beam-illumin'd dwelling,
Where Young delights the Muse at Welling)
We march as gently as we can,
And reach at Stevenage the Swan:
A well-fed pullet roasted nice,
And of high-season'd ham a slice,
Of suppers could not prove the worst-
Warm negus gratified our thirst:
At ten the welcome down we prest,
And wooed the kindly Power of rest.-
With early dawn we mount the chaise,
And Phoebus smiles in friendly rays:
O'er finest turnpike-road we bowl,
The wheels, the numbers gently roll,
Speed swift to Baldock down the hill,
Where liv'd sweet Polly of the Mill,
But now the lovely Polly's gone,
Rival of Venus!-so drive on.
Thro' villages, o'er plains we ride,
Where Ouze conducts his silver tide;
So slow his winding waters stray,
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