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Whereat his horse did snort, as he

Had heard a lion roar,

And gallop'd off with all his might,

As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin's hat and wig:
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why?-they were too big.

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pull'd out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,

This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain!

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,

By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scamp'ring in the rear,
They rais'd the hue and cry:-

Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman! Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that pass'd that way

Did join in the pursuit.

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And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;

The toll men thinking as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.

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Nor stopp'd till where he had got up

He did again get down.

Now let us sing, long live the king,

And Gilpin, long live he;

And, when he next doth ride abroad,

May I be there to see!

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AN EPISTLE

ΤΟ

AN AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

MADAM,

A STRANGER'S purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate, and not to praise.
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or ev'n to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow, and that path, alone, Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; No trav❜ller ever reach'd that blest abode, Who found not thorns and briars in his road.

EPISTLE TO A LADY IN FRANCE.

429

The world may dance along the flow'ry plain,
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.

But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That hard by nature and of stubborn will,

A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace design'd

To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years,

And said, "Go, spend them in the vale of tears." O balmy gales of soul-reviving air,

O salutary streams that murmur there,

These flowing from the fount of grace above,
Those breath'd from lips of everlasting love!
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys,
An envious world will interpose its frown
To mar delights superior to its own,

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