Happy the Lab'rer
Happy the lab'rer in his Sunday clothes! In light-drab coat, smart waistcoat, well-darn'd hose, And hat upon his head, to church he goes; As oft, with conscious pride, he downward throws A glance upon the ample cabbage rose That, stuck in button-hole, regales his nose, He envies not the gayest London beaux. In church he takes his seat among the rows, Pays to the place the reverence he owes, Likes best the prayers whose meaning least he knows, Lists to the sermon in a softening doze, And rouses joyous at the welcome close.
I've a Pain in my Head
'I've a pain in my head'
Said the suffering Beckford; To her Doctor so dread. 'Oh! what shall I take for't?'
Said this Doctor so dread
Whose name it was Newnham. 'For this pain in your head Ah! What can you do Ma'am?'
Said Miss Beckford, 'Suppose
If you think there's no risk, I take a good Dose Of calomel brisk.'--
'What a praise worthy Notion.'
Replied Mr. Newnham. 'You shall have such a potion And so will I too Ma'am.'
Miss Lloyd has now went to Miss Green
Miss Lloyd has now sent to Miss Green, As, on opening the box, may be seen, Some years of a Black Ploughman's Gauze, To be made up directly, because Miss Lloyd must in mourning appear For the death of a Relative dear-- Miss Lloyd must expect to receive This license to mourn and to grieve, Complete, ere the end of the week-- It is better to write than to speak
Mock Panegyric on a Young Friend
In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna: And, first, her mind is unconfined Like any vast savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound: Its circuit may, on strict survey Five hundred miles be found.
Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall; And travellers gaze in wild amaze, And listen, one and all.
Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound, Like transatlantic groves, Dispenses aid, and friendly shade To all that in it roves.
If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts, And all that's grand in that great land In similes it costs --
Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray? How paint the face, the form how trace, In which those virtues lay?
Another world must be unfurled, Another language known, Ere tongue or sound can publish round Her charms of flesh and bone.
My Dearest Frank, I Wish You Joy
My dearest Frank, I wish you joy
Of Mary's safety with a Boy, Whose birth has given little pain Compared with that of Mary Jane.-- May he a growing Blessing prove, And well deserve his Parents' Love!-- Endow'd with Art's and Nature's Good, Thy Name possessing with thy Blood, In him, in all his ways, may we Another Francis WIlliam see!-- Thy infant days may he inherit, They warmth, nay insolence of spirit;-- We would not with one foult dispense To weaken the resemblance. May he revive thy Nursery sin, Peeping as daringly within, His curley Locks but just descried, With 'Bet, my be not come to bide.'-- Fearless of danger, braving pain, And threaten'd very oft in vain, Still may one Terror daunt his Soul, One needful engine of Controul Be found in this sublime array, A neigbouring Donkey's aweful Bray. So may his equal faults as Child, Produce Maturity as mild! His saucy words and fiery ways In early Childhood's pettish days, In Manhood, shew his Father's mind Like him, considerate and Kind; All Gentleness to those around, And anger only not to wound. Then like his Father too, he must, To his own former struggles just, Feel his Deserts with honest Glow, And all his self-improvement know. A native fault may thus give birth To the best blessing, conscious Worth. As for ourselves we're very well; As unaffected prose will tell.-- Cassandra's pen will paint our state, The many comforts that await Our Chawton home, how much we find Already in it, to our mind; And how convinced, that when complete It will all other Houses beat The ever have been made or mended, With rooms concise, or rooms distended. You'll find us very snug next year, Perhaps with Charles and Fanny near, For now it often does delight us To fancy them just over-right us.--
Ode to Pity
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love. While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush Converses with the Dove.