The FLIGHTS.
39
Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps,By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps. All in the land of Essex next he chaunts,[1]How to steek mares starch Quakers turn gallants; 110How the grave brother stood on bank so green:Happy for him if mares had never been![2]Then he was seiz'd with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth Psalm.He sung of Taffey-Welsh, and Sawney-Scot, 115Lilly-bullero and the Irish Trot,Why should I tell of Bateman or of Shore,[3][4]Or Wantley's dragon slain by valiant Moore,The bow'r of Rosamond, or Robin Hood, 119And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood? His carrols ceas'd: The list'ning maids and swainsSeem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.Sudden he rose; and as he reels along,Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.The damsels laughing fly; the giddy clown 125Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;The pow'r that guards the drunk, his sleep atends,'Till ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.
- ↑ Line 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's See his poems.
- ↑ 112. Et fortunatum si nunquam Armenta fuissent Pasiphaen.Virg.
- ↑ 117. Old English Ballads.
- ↑ 117. Quid loquar aut Scyllam Nisi, &c.Virg.