304 His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; No longer from thy window look- And search no more the forest thorough; The tear shall never leave my cheek, HENRY FIELDING [1707-1754] A HUNTING SONG THE dusky night rides down the sky, The hounds all join in glorious cry, The wife around her husband throws '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 For why? I carried, sound and good, And a-hunting we will go.' Away he goes, he flies the rout, Their steeds all spur and switch, Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, But a-hunting we will go. At length his strength to faintness worn, Then a-drinking we will go. 305 CHARLES DIBDIN [1745-1814] TOM BOWLING HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, No more he'll hear the tempest howling, His form was of the manliest beauty, Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, 306 And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, But mirth is turned to melancholy, Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands.' Thus Death, who kings and tars dispatches, SAMUEL JOHNSON ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine, Well tried through many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny When fainting nature called for aid, His vigorous remedy display'd The power of art without the show. 307 In misery's darkest cavern known, No summons mock'd by chill delay, The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, The busy day, the peaceful night, His frame was firm-his powers were bright, Then with no fiery throbbing pain, A SATIRE LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty, Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies, All that prey on vice and folly, Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Call the jockey, call the pander, When the bonny blade carouses, Should the guardian, friend, or mother, Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,- 308 309 OLIVER GOLDSMITH [1728-1774] WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly And finds too late that men betray,- The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, RETALIATION Or 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, |