SONG TO

WHAT! bid me seek another fair
In untried paths of female wiles ?
And posies weave of other hair,

And bask secure in other smiles?
Thy friendly stars no longer prize,
And light my course by other eyes?

Ah no!-my dying lips shall close,
Unalter'd love, as faith, professing;
Nor praising him who life bestows,
Forget who makes that gift a blessing.
My last address to Heav'n is due;
The last but one is all-to you.

FRANCIS FAWKES.
BORN 1721.-DIED 1777.

FRANCIS FAWKES made translations from some of the minor Greek poets (viz. Anacreon, Sapphó, Bion and Moschus, Museus, Theocritus, and Apollonius), and modernized the description of " May and Winter," from Gawin Douglas. He was born in Yorkshire, studied at Cambridge, was curate of Croydon, in Surrey, where he obtained the friend

ship of Archbishop Herring, and by him was collated to the vicarage of Orpington, in Kent. By the favour of Dr. Plumptre, he exchanged this vicarage for the rectory of Hayes, and was finally made chaplain to the Princess of Wales. He was the friend of Johnson, and Warton; a learned and a jovial parson.

THE BROWN JUG.

DEAR Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl;
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow'r-woven arbour as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolv'd it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale, So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.

ANONYMOUS.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

IN Phœbus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar!
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,

Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give, To trace the features of unnoticed man;

Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly

reach.

A wight there was, who single and alone

Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage: Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confin'd

The genuine graces of the soul sincere, And well could show with saw or proverb quaint, All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty

paint.

In plain attire this wight apparel'd was,

(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause,

From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,

And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so sheen, And his rough beard he shav'd, and donn'd his linen clean.

But in his common garb a coat he wore,

A faithful coat that long its lord had known, That once was black, but now was black no more, Attinged by various colours not its own. All from his nostrils was the front imbrown'd, And down the back ran many a greasy line, While, here and there, his social moments own'd The generous signet of the purple wine. Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appear'd, Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeir'd.

One only maid he had, like turtle true,

But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; For many a time her tongue bewray'd the shrew, And in meet words unpack'd her peevish mind. Ne form'd was she to raise the soft desire That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, Ne form'd was she to light the tender fire, By many a bard is sung in many a strain :

Hook'd was her nose, and countless wrinkles told What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.

When the clock told the wonted hour was come When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, Right patient would she watch his wending home, His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. If long his time was past, and leaden sleep

O'er her tir'd eye-lids 'gan his reign to stretch, Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,

And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;

Haply if potent gin had arm'd her tongue, All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung.

For though the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle O'er her cold bosom long had ceas'd to reign, On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile,

Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: For wine she priz'd not much, for stronger drink Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, And for the medicine's sake, might envy think,

Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral;

Yet much the proffer did she loath, and say No dram might maiden taste, and often answer'd

nay.

So as in single animals he joy'd,

One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed;