Of manners gentle, of affections mild;
In wit, a man, simplicity, a child.

Gay was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a handsome monu-
ment was erected to his memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queens-
berry. The works of this easy and genial son of the Muses have lost
much of their popularity. He has the licentiousness, without the
elegance of Prior. His Fables' are still, however, the best we pos-
sess; and if they have not the nationality or rich humour and arch-
ness of La Fontaine's, they are light and pleasing, and the versifica-
tion always smooth and correct. The Hare with Many Friends' is
doubtless drawn from Gay's own experience. In the 'Court of
Death,' he aims at a higher order of poetry, and marshals his 'dis-
eases dire' with a strong and gloomy power. His song of Black-
eyed Susan,' and the ballad beginning 'Twas when the seas were
roaring,' are full of characteristic tenderness and lyrical melody. The
latter is said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbuth-
not, Swift, and Gay, but the tradition is not supported by evidence.
The Country Ballad-singer.—From 'The Shepherd's Week.'
Sublimer strains, O rustic Muse! prepare;
Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care;
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require scnorous lays;
With Bowzybeus' songs exalt thy verse,

While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse.
'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil
Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil;
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gathered sheaves about;
The lads with sharpened hook and sweating brow
Cut down the labours of the winter plough.
When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied,
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside;
That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing,

Or with the rosined bow torment the string;

That Bowzybeus who, with fingers' speed,

Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed;
That Bowzybeus who, with Jocund tongue,
Ballads, and roundelays, and catches sung:
They loudly laugh to see the damsels' fright,
And in disport surround the drunken wight.

Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long?
The mugs were large, the drink was wondrous strong!
Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night,
But thou sat'st toping till the morning light.

No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,
But lads and lasses round about him throng.
Not ballad-singer placed above the crowd
Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;
Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,
Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear.

Of Nature's laws his carols first begun-
Why the grave owl can never face the sun.
For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
And only sing and seek their prey by night.
How turnips hide their swelling heads below,

...

And how the closing coleworts upwards grow;
How Will-a-wisp misleads night-faring clowns
O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs.
Of stars he told that shoot with shining trail,
And of the glowworm's light that gilds his tail.
He sung where woodcocks in the summer feed,
And in what climates they renew their breed-
Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend,
Or to the moon in midnight hours ascend-
Where swallows in the winter's season keep,
And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep;
How Nature does the puppy's eyelids close
Till the bright sun has nine times set and rose:
(For huntsmen by their long experience find,
That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind).
Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,
For still new fairs, before his eyes arose.
How pedlers' stalls with glittering toys are laid,
The various fairings of the country maid.
Long silken laces hang upon the twine,

And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine.

How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spies,
And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.

Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold.
The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
And all the fair is crowded in his song.

The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells
His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells;
Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs,
And on the rope the venturous maiden swings;
Jack Pudding, in his party-coloured jacket,
Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet.
Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets picked in crowds, and various cheats.
Walking the Streets of London.-From 'Trivia.'
Through winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night;
How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stray

Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.

To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays:
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name;
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more my country's love demands my lays;
My country's be the profit, mine the praise!

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, And Clean your shoes' resounds from every voice; When late their miry sides stage-coaches shew,

And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,

And damsels first renew their oyster-cries;
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;

The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scalloped top his step be crowned:
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear.
Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;

The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain,

And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
True Witney (1) broadcloth, with its shag unshorn,
Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn:

Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent.
Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends,
Whose ample form without one plait depends;
By various names in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true surtout alone;

Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost,
Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost.

If thy strong cane support thy walking hand,
Chairmen no longer shall the wall command;
Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey,
And rattling coaches stop to make thee way:
This shall direct thy cautious tread aright,
Though not one glaring lamp enliven night.
Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce;
Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use.
In gilded chariots while they loll at ease,

And lazily insure a life's disease;

While softer chairs the tawdry load convey

To Court, to White's, (2) assemblies, or the play;
Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends,
And exercise thy lasting youth defends.

Song.

Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its lustre,
Which in the garden enamels the ground;
Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster,

And gaudy butterflies frolic around.

But when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring,

To Covent Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet),

There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet. (3)

1 A town in Oxfordshire. 2 A chocolate-house in St. James's Street.

3I thought o' the bonny bit thorn that our father rooted out o' the yard last May,

The Court of Death.

when it had a' the flush o' biossoms on it; and then it lay in the court till the beasts had trod thema' to pieces wi' their feet. I little thought when I was wae for the bit silly green bush and its flowers, that I was to gang the same gate mysell.'-Effie Deans in Heart of Mid-Lothian.'

The Sheep was feeble, and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained:
Said he was slow, confessed his fears,
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.
'Shall I,' says he, 'of tender age,
In this important care engage?

Older and abler passed you by;
How strong are those, how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then. You know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu!
For, see, the hounds are just in view!'

Song.-Black-eyed Susan.

All in the Downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When Black-eyed Susan came aboard,
'Oh! where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew ?'
William, who high upon the yard

Rocked with the billow to and fro,

Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sighed, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast-

If chance his mate's shrill call he hear-
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.
'O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain;

Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

'Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

'If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,

Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

'Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;

Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,

Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.'
The boatswain gave the dreadful word;
The sails their swelling bosom spread;

No longer must she stay aboard:

They kissed-she sighed-he hung his head.
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land,
'Adieu !' she cries, and waved her lily hand.