41
He soon arriv'd, he trac'd the Village-green,There saw the Maid, and was with pleasure seen;Then talk'd of Love, till Lucy's yielding heartConfess'd 'twas painful, though 'twas right to part."For ah! my Father has an haughty soul,Whom best he loves, he loves but to controul;Me to some churl in bargain he'll consign,And make some tyrant of the Parish mine;Cold is his heart, and he with looks severe,Has often forc'd, but seldom shed, the tear;Save when my Mother died, some drops express'dA kind of sorrow for a Wife at rest:—To me a Master's stern regard is shown,I'm like his steed, priz'd highly as his own;Stroak'd but corrected, threaten'd when supplied,His slave and boast, his victim and his pride."'Cheer up, my Lass; I'll to thy Father go,The Miller cannot be the Sailor's foe;Both live by Heaven's free gale that plays aloudIn the stretch'd canvass and the piping shroud;The rush of winds, the flapping sails above,And rattling planks within, are sounds we love;Calms are our Dread; when Tempests plough the Deep,We take a Reef, and to the rocking, sleep;"Ha!" quoth the Miller, mov'd at speech so rash,"Art thou like me? Then where thy notes and cash?Away to Wapping, and a wife command,With all thy wealth, a guinea, in thine hand;There with thy messmates, quaff the muddy cheer,And leave my Lucy for thy betters here."
