t

Now, Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband pelting 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 your's 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 frightened steed he frightened more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went post-boy at his heels!

The post-boy's horse right glad to miss

The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With post-boy scampering in the rear,
They raised 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.

And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did-and won it too!-
For he got first to town;
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!

William Cowper.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER!

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

NEEDY Knife-grinder! whither art you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of orderBleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,

So have your breeches!

Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud

ones

Who in their coaches roll along the turnpikeRoad, what hard work 'tis crying all the day "Knives and

Scissors to grind O!"

1 From the Anti - Jacobin.

Southey's sapphics.

Written to ridicule

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind

knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the Squire? or Parson of the Parish?
Or the Attorney?

Was it the Squire for killing of his game? or Covetous Parson, for his Tithes distraining? Or roguish Lawyer, made you lose your little All in a law suit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

'Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

'Constables came up for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the Parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

'I should be glad to drink your Honour's health in A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

With Politics, sir.'

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damn'd first!

Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to

(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy).

George Canning.

NORA'S VOW

HEAR What Highland Nora said,—
'The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of Nature die,
And none be left but he and I...
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost and won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son.'

"A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
'Are lightly made and lightly broke.
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;

i The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'

'The swan,' she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest ;

"

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.'

14

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,

-She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Sir Walter Scott.

DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF,

'Tis mine!

What accents can my joy declare ? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,

That left the tempting corner hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine, When at the relic of his saint he kneels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with filching fingers I drew near, b Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein; And when the finished deed removed my fear,

Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.