JACKY'S FIDDLE.
JACKY, come give me thy fiddle,
If ever thou mean to thrive.
Nay, I'll not give my fiddle
To any man alive.
If I should give my fiddle,
They'll think that I'm gone mad ;
For many a joyful day
My fiddle and I have had.
THEE on thy mother's knees, a new born child,
We saw thee weep while all around thee smiled;
So live, that sinking to thy last long sleep,
Smiles may be thine, while all around thee weep.
SIR W. JONES.
DAMON AND JULIANA.
COUGHING in a shady grove
Sat my Juliana;
Lozenges I gave my love
Ipecacuanha:
From the box the imprudent maid
Three score of them did pick;
Then sighing tenderly, she said—
'My Damon, I am sick!'
JOHANNULI FIDES.
TRADE fides illas, mihi trade Johannule, si tu
Nobiliore velis conditione frui.-
Haud ita nulla fides feriet manus altera nostras,
Quisquis erit qui me talia dona roget;
Namque carens fidibus merito vesanus haberer,
Quæ tot lætificos mecum habuere dies.
AD SEXTIUM.
QUUM natalibus, O beate Sexti,
Tuis adfuimus caterva gaudens,
Vagitu resonis strepente cunis
In risum domus omnis est soluta.
Talis vive precor, beate Sexti,
Ut circum lacrymantibus propinquis
Cum mors immineat toro cubantis,
Solus non alio fruare risu.
THYRSIS ET PHYLLIS.
In nemore umbroso Phyllis mea forte sedebat,
Cui mollem exhausit tussis anhela sinum;
Nec mora, de loculo deprompsi pyxida lævo,
Ipecacuaneos exhibuique trochos.
Illa quidem imprudens medicatos leniter orbes
Absorpsit numero bisque quaterque decem;
Tum tenero ducens suspiria pectore, dixit-
'Thyrsi, mihi stomachum nausea tristis habet.'
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
How often have I paused on every charm,
The sheltered cot and cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook and busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train from labour free
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And slights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove!
These were thy charms, sweet Village; sports like these
With sweet succession taught even toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed;
These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.
AH! quoties illo veneres miratus in agro
Tranquillas vidi culta per arva casas,
Et loca qua pistrina sequacibus adstrepit undis,
Mundaque vicinis addita templa jugis,
Et frutices lætos, aptasque sedentibus umbras,
Seu senium musset, sive susurret amor.
Ah! quoties grato venerabar pectore lucem,
Cum misso exciperent pensa labore joci,
Et paganorum properaret in agmine turba,
Libera sub patula ducere fronde choros !
Tum fuit umbrosa quantum certamen arena!
Colludunt juvenes, aspiciuntque senes;
Innumerosque cient vexato in gramine ludos,
Membrorum vegeta vi, celerique manu.
Displiceat toties eadem repetita voluptas?
Inveniet ludos læta caterva novos.
Certatim innocuam qui produxere choream,
Ut pedibus simplex gloria parta foret;
Rusticus inspersa foedus fuligine vultum,
Qui movet occultos nescius ipse jocos;
Virginis indictam prodentia lumina flammam,
Quæque oculo mater vix prohibere velit :
Has inter veneres, sedes dilecta, laboris
Dulcibus immisti lene placebat onus;
Hæc circum placidam spirabant undique pacem; Hæc tibi-sed notos deseruere locos!
HEY diddle diddle! the cat and the fiddle !—
The cow jumped over the moon ;
The little dog laught to see such fine sport;
And the dish ran away with the spoon.
Он! how hard it is to find
The one just suited to our mind!
And if that one should be
False, unkind, or found too late,
What can we do but sigh at fate,
And sing, Woe's me! woe's me!'?
Love's a boundless burning waste,
Where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
And still more seldom flee
Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings:
Yet somehow Love a something brings
That's sweet, e'en when we sigh Woe's me!'
LITTLE BOPEEP.
LITTLE BOрeep has lost her sheep,
And does not know where to find them: Let them alone, and they'll soon come home,
And bring their tails behind them.
GAMMER GURTON.
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