But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there, Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew Shot by an archer strong, The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, His horse at last stood still. The Callender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim, And thus accosted him What news? what news ? your tidings tell, Tell me you must and shall- Or why you come at all ? And loved a timely joke, In merry guise he spoke- And if I well forbode, They are upon the road. His friend in merry pin, But to the house went in. Whence straight he came with hat and wig, A wig that flow'd behind, Each comely in its kind, He held them up, and in his turn Thus show'd his ready wit, They therefore needs must fit. That hangs upon your face ; Be in a hungry case. And all the world would stare, And I should dine at Ware. So, turning to his horse, he said, I am in haste to dine, 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast ! For which he paid full dear, For while he spake a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear. Whereat his horse did snort as he Had heard a lion roar, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig ; For why? they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulld 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, By catching at his rein. And gladly would have done, And made him faster run. Went postboy at his heels, The lumbering of the wheels. Thus seeing Gilpin fly, They raised the hue and cry. Not one of them was mute, Did join in the pursuit. Flew open in short space, That Gilpin rode a race. For he got first to town, He did again get down. And Gilpin long live he, W. COWPER. k Hohenlinden On Linden, when the sun was low, Of Iser, rolling rapidly. The darkness of her scenery. To join the dreadful revelry. Far flash'd the red artillery. Of Iser, rolling rapidly. Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. On, ye brave And charge with all thy chivalry! T. CAMPBELL, h The Village Blacksmith UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; Are strong as iron bands. His face is like the tan; He earns whate'er he can, For he owes not any man. You can hear his bellows blow; With measured beat and slow, When the evening sun is low. Look in at the open door ; And hear the bellows roar, a And sits among his boys ; He hears his daughter's voice, heart rejoice. Singing in Paradise ! How in the grave she lies; A tear out of his eyes. |