« EelmineJätka »
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
Some three or four miles out of town
Well, then, suppose them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, scrubbing past, Hugging themselves in ease and clover, With all the fuss of moving over ; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred, And wanton in my lady's head.
“ Well, to be sure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground; So sweet a distance for a ride, And all about so countryfied! 'Twould come to but a trifling price To make it quite a paradise. I cannot bear those nasty rails, Those ugly broken mouldy pales : Suppose, my dear, instead of these, We build a railing all Chinese:
Although one hates to be exposed,
Blest age! when all men may procure The title of a Connoisseur; When noble and ignoble herd Are govern’d by a single word; Though, like the royal German dames, It bears an hundred Christian names; As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Goût, Whim, Caprice, Je ne scai quoi, Virtù; Which appellations all describe Taste, and the modern tasteful tribe.
Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners, With Chinese artists and designers, Produce their schemes of alteration To work this wondrous reformation. The useful dome, which secret stood, Embosom’d in the yew-tree's wood, The trav'ller with amazement sees A temple Gothic, or Chinese, With many a bell and tawdry rag on, And crested with a sprawling dragon. A wooden arch is bent astride A ditch of water four feet wide, With angles, curves, and zigzag lines, From Halfpenny's exact designs. In front a level lawn is seen, Without a shrub upon the green, Where Taste would want its first great law, But for the sculking, sly ha-ha, By whose miraculous assistance You gain a prospect two fields distance. And now from Hyde-Park Corner come The gods of Athens and of Rome. Here squabby Cupids take their places, With Venus, and the clumsy Graces : Apollo there, with aim so clever, Stretches his leaden bow for ever ; And there, without the power to fly, Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.
The villa thus completely graced,
FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY.
FIRST PUBLISHED BY DR. PERCY.
It was a Friar of Orders Grey
Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
“ Now Christ thee save, thou reverend Friar,
I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine
My true love thou didst see.”
“ And how should I know your true love
From many another one ?"
“ But chiefly by his face and mien
That were so fair to view,
And eyne of lovely blue.”
« O Lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone !
And at his heels a stone.
66 Within these holy cloysters long
He languish'd and be died, Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.
" Here bore him barefaced on his bier,
Six proper youths and tall,
Within yon kirk-yard wall."
“ And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone! And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone !"
• O weep not, Lady, weep not so;
Some ghostly comfort seek;
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.”