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THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT. 1625.

"THE MERRY SONG OF THE MAYPOLE" is undoubtedly the first piece of composed on the "hilarious verse continent of North America. A scapegrace lawyer, Thomas Morton, of Clifford's Inn, London (Justice Shallow's abiding place), landed with other ad

venturers at Plymouth, in 1622. Three years afterwards, he joined Wollaston's party at Pasonagessit, which place was named after their leader, but afterwards they called it Ma-re Mount. They lived, according to the chronicler of Plymouth, "in great licentiousness of life, in all profaneness, and the said Morton became lord of misrule, and maintained, as it were, a school of Atheism; and after they had got some goods into their hands, and got much by trading with the Indians, they spent it as vainly in quaffing and drinking both wine and strong liquors in great excess, as some have reported ten pounds' worth in a morning, setting up a Maypole, drinking and dancing about

it, and frisking about it like so many fairies, or furies rather, yea, and worse practices, as if they had anew revived and celebrated the feast of the Roman goddess, Flora, or the beastly practices of the mad Bacchanalians."

Thomas Morton published a book in 1637, called "New English Canaan." Butler, in his "Hudibras," has made use of some of the stories narrated by Morton, whose account of the Maypole is as follows:-"Being resolved to have the new name (Ma-re or Merry Mount) confirmed for a memorial to after ages, the inhabitants did devise amongst themselves to have it performed in a solemn manner with revels and merriment, after the old English custom, prepared to set up a Maypole upon the festival day of Philip and Jacob; and therefore brewed a barrel of excellent beer, and provided a case of bottles to be spent, with other good cheer for all

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comers of that day. And because they would have it in a complete form, they had prepared a song fitting to the time and present occasion. And upon May-day they brought the Maypole to the place appointed, with guns, drums, pistols, and other fitting instruments, for that purpose; and there erected it with the help of salvages, that came thither of purpose to see the manner of our revels. A goodly pine tree, of eighty feet long, was reared up, with a pair of buck horns nailed on, somewhat near unto the top of it. There was, likewise, a merry song made, which was sung with a chorus, every man bearing his part; which they performed in a dance, hand-inhand about the Maypole, while one of the company sung, and filled out the good liquor, like Gammedes (Ganymede) and Jupiter."

The Song of the Maypole.

Drink and be merry, merry, merry boys,
Let all your delight be in Hymen's joys.
Io to Hymen, now the day is come,
About the merry Maypole take a roome.
Make green garlands, bring bottles out;
And fill sweet Nectar freely about.
Uncover thy head, and fear no harm,
For here's good liquor to keep it warm.
Then, drink and be merry, &c.

Nectar is a thing assigned,
By the Deities' own mind,
To cure the heart opprest with grief,
And of good liquors is the chief.
Then drink, &c.

Give to the melancholy man,
A cup or two oft now and then,
This physic will soon revive his blood,
And make him be of a merrier mood.
Then drink, &c.

Give to the nymph that's free from scorn,
No Irish stuff, nor Scotch over warm;
Lasses in beaver coats come away,
Ye shall be welcome to us night and day,
To drink and be merry, &c.

Morton remarks that "this harmless mirth, made by young men, was much distasted of the precise Separatists, who, from that time, sought occasion against my honest host of Ma-re Mount, to overthrow his undertakings, and to destroy his plantation quite and clear." Nathaniel Hawthorne, who has a sweet sketch on this subject, says, "Bright were the days at Merry Mount, when the Maypole was the banner-staff of that gay colony! They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant, were to pour sunshine over New England's rugged hills, and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. Jollity and gloom were contending for an empire."

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NEW ENGLAND'S annoyances, you that would know | Our mountains and hills and our valleys below, them,

Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth show
them.

The place where we live is a wilderness wood,
Where grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good:

Being commonly covered with ice and with snow;
And when the north-west wind with violence blows,
Then every man pulls his cap over his nose:
But if any's so hardy, and will it withstand,
He forfeits a finger, a foot, or a hand.

But when the Spring opens, we then take the hoe,
And make the ground ready to plant and to sow;
Our corn being planted and seed being sown,
The worms destroy much before it is grown;
And when it is growing some spoil there is made,
By birds and by squirrels that pluck up the blade;
And when it is come to full corn in the ear,
It is often destroyed by raccoon and by deer.
And now our garments begin to grow thin,
And wool is much wanted to card and to spin;
If we can get a garment to cover without,
Our other in-garments are clout upon clout:
Our clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn,
They need to be clouted soon after they're worn;
But clouting our garments they hinder us nothing,
Clouts double are warmer than single whole clothing.

If fresh meat be wanting to fill up our dish,
We have carrots and turnips as much as we wish ;
And is there a mind for a delicate dish,

We repair to the clam-banks, and there we catch fish.

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FATHER ABBEY'S WILL.

BY JOHN SECCOMB. 1732.

MATHEW ABBEY was a bedmaker and sweeper at Harvard College, Cambridge, for many years. He is supposed to leave his childless wife (also a bedmaker) the whole of his estate, as follows:

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The Poet's Lamentation for the Loss of his Cat, which he used to call his Muse (Mews.)

Felis quædam delicium erat cujusdam Adolescentis.-ESOP.

OPPRESS'D with grief, in heavy strains I mourn
The partner of my studies from me torn.
How shall I sing? What numbers shall I choose,
For in my fav'rite cat I've lost my muse.

No more I feel my mind with raptures fir'd, I want those airs that Puss so oft inspir'd;

No crowding thoughts my ready fancy fill,
Nor words run fluent from my easy quill;
Yet shall my verse deplore her cruel fate,
And celebrate the virtues of my cat.

In acts obscene she never took delight;
No caterwauls disturb'd our sleep by night.
Chaste as a virgin, free from every stain,
And neighboring cats mew'd for her love in vain.
She never thirsted for the chicken's blood;
Her teeth she only used to chew her food;
Harmless as satires which her master writes,
A foe to scratching, and unused to bites,
She in the study was my constant mate;
There we together many evenings sate.
Whene'er I felt my tow'ring fancy fail,

I stroked her head, her ears, her back, and tail,
And as I stroked, improv'd my dying song,
From the sweet notes of her melodious tongue :
Her paws and mews so evenly kept time,
She purr'd in metre and she mew'd in rhyme.
But when my dulness has too stubborn prov'd,
Nor could by Puss's music be remov'd,
Oft to the well-known volumes have I gone,
And stole a line from Pope or Addison.
Ofttimes, when lost amidst poetic heat,
She, leaping on my knee, has took her seat;
There saw the throes that rock'd my lab'ring brain,

And lick'd and claw'd me to myself again.

Then, friends, indulge my grief and let me mourn,

My cat is gone, ah! never to return!

Now in my study, all the tedious night,

Alone I sit, and unassisted write;

Look often round (0 greatest cause of pain),

And view the num'rous labors of my brain;

Those quires of words array'd in pompous rhyme,
Which braved the jaws of all-devouring time,
Now undefended and unwatch'd by cats,
Are doom'd a victim to the teeth of rats.

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THE JESTS OF MATHER BYLES,
A celebrated Boston Divine. Born, 1706. Died, 1788.

THE ana which have been preserved, show that Dr. Mather Byles's reputation as a wit was well deserved.

There was a slough opposite his house, in which, on a certain wet day, a chaise containing two of the town council stuck fast. Dr. Byles came to his door, and saluted the officials with the remark,

"Gentlemen, I have often complained to you of this nuisance, without any attention being paid to it, and I am very glad to see you stirring in this matter now."

In the year 1780 a very dark day occurred, which was long remembered as "the dark day." A lady neighbor sent her son to the doctor to know if he

could tell her the cause of the obscurity. "My dear," was the answer to the messenger, "give my compliments to your mother, and tell her that I am as much in the dark as she is."

One day a ship arrived at Boston with three hundred street lamps. The same day, the doctor happened to receive a call from a lady whose conversational powers were not of the kind to render a long interview desirable. He availed himself of the newly-arrived cargo to despatch his visitor. "Have you heard the news?" said he, with emphasis. "Oh,

no! What news?" "Why three hundred new lights have come over in the ship this morning from London, and the selectmen have wisely ordered them to be put in irons immediately. The visitor forthwith decamped in search of the particulars of this invasion of religious liberty.

When brought before his judges, at the time of his trial, they requested him to sit down and warm himself. "Gentlemen," was the reply, "when I came among you, I expected persecution, but I could not think you would have offered me the fire so suddenly."

COLONEL PUTNAM'S INDIAN STORY.
Extract from John Adams' Diary.

Nov. 10, 1772.-Sunday. Heard Mr. Cutler, of Ipswich Hamlet; dined at Dr. Putnam's with Colonel Putnam and lady, and two young gentlemen, nephews of the Doctor and Colonel, and a Mrs. Scollay. Colonel Putnam told a story of an Indian upon Connecticut River, who called at a tavern, in the fall of the year, for a dram. The landlord asked him two coppers for it. The next spring, happening, at the same house, he called for another, and had three coppers to pay for it. "How is this, land

lord?" says he; "last fall you asked but two coppers for a glass of rum, now you ask three." "Oh!" says the landlord, "it costs me a good deal to keep rum over winter. It is as expensive to keep a hogshead of rum over winter as a horse." "Ah!" says the Indian, "I can't see through that; he won't eat so much hay: Maybe he drink as much water." This was sheer wit, pure satire, and true humor. Humor, wit, and satire, in one very short repartee.

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This version, copied from the "Historical Collections of N. Hampshire," varies in the last six verses from other editions.

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