THE LAY OF THE FIVE FINGERS.

THIS little pig went to market,

This little pig staid at home,

This little pig had a bit of bread and butter,

This little pig had none,

This little pig cried, wee! wee! wee! I can't find my

way home.

GAMMER GURTON.

A NEW MISTRESS.

CALL me not, love, unkind,
That from the nunnerie

Of thy chaste heart and quiet mind,
To war and arms I flie.

Another mistress hence I chace,

The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

LOVELACE.

TO AN EDITOR.

So rude and senseless are thy lays,
The weary audience vows,

'Tis not the Arcadian swain that sings,
But 'tis his herd that lows.

SHENSTONE.

IN QUINQUE DIGITOS.

PORCULUS ille forum se contulit; ille remansit

Usque domi; panem butyro porculus ille

Perfusum arripuit; nullum miser ille; sed 'eheu!' Ter repetens 'eheu!' clamabat porculus 'eheu !'

Ille, 'ego porcinos nequeo reperire Penates.'

F. H.

NOVUS AMOR.

PARCE precor verbis, cara, indulgere severis,
Quod de tam casta sede libenter agar,
Sede tuæ mentis tranquillæ in pectore puro,
Et celer in pugnas et media arma ruam.

Quicunque instructo per campos imperat hosti,
Est novus a nobis ille petendus amor;
Danda fides clypeo, danda et jam certior ensi,
Et magis ardentem solicitamus equum.

B. H. D.

AD EDITOREM.

TAM rude carmen habes, ita sunt sine Apolline versus,

(Pertæsus auditor crepat)

Non est Arcadicus qui cantat arundine pastor,
Armenta sunt quæ mugiunt.

B.

ELEGY.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the Moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

ELEGIA.

DEPOSITI sonat exequias campana diei,
Incedit lentum per vaga rura pecus:
Carpit iter, repetitque domum defessus arator,
Sublustrique moror vespere solus agris.

Nunc oculos fallit species evanida rerum,

Et passim ætheriæ conticuere plagæ,
Ni rotat argutos qua cantharus aëre gyros,
Tinnitusque piger sub juga sopit oves.

Ni forte ex hedera vicinæ in vertice turris
Noctua luctisonos integrat ægra modos,
Si qui palantes latebrosa cubilia propter
Secreti invadant jura vetusta loci.
Subter nodosis ulmis, taxoque comanti,
Qua putris aggesto cespite terra tumet,
Cella quisque sua, pagi rudis incola in ævum
Dormit, et indigenæ contumulantur avi.

Mane in odorifero peramabilis aura Favoni,
Quæ de straminea garrit hirundo casa,
Argutum galli carmen, lituusve sonorus,
Discutient humilis somnia nulla tori.

Illis haud iterum refovebitur igne caminus,
Sponsave quod propriæ est sedula partis aget :
Non balbo proles gratabitur ore parenti,
Curret in amplexus, præripietve genas.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field !

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.