There was a sky-painter at Folkestone
Whose tone for the sky was egg-yolk's tone:
This fanciful fellow
Mistook blue for yellow
So—small was his fame out of Folkestone!

Gif ye wol stonden hardie wight —
Amiddès of the blackè night —
Righte in the churchè porch, pardie,
Ye wol behold a companie
Approchen thee full dolourouse.
For sooth to sain, from everich house,
Be it in city or village,
Wol come the phantom and image
Of ilka gent and ilka carle,
Whom coldè Deathè hath in parle
And wol some day that very year,
Touchen with foulè venìme spear
And sadly do them all to die:
Hem all shalt thou see verilie.
And everichon shall by thee pass,
All who must die that year, alas....

Ther' ain't no use in all this strife,
An' hurryin', pell-mell, right thro' life.
I don't believe in goin' too fast
To see what kind o' road you've passed.
It ain't no mortal kind o' good,
'N' I would n't hurry ef I could.
I like to jest go joggin' 'long,
To limber up my soul with song;
To stop awhile 'n' chat the men,
'N' drink some cider now an' then.
Do' want no boss a-standin' by
To see me work; I allus try
To do my dooty right straight up,
An' earn what fills my plate an' cup.
An' ez fur boss, I 'll be my own,

James Brydges and the Dean had long been friends,
James is beduked; of course their friendship ends.
But sure the Dean deserves a sharp rebuke,
From knowing James, to boast he knows a Duke.
But, since just heaven the Duke's ambition mocks,
Since all he got by fraud is lost by stocks,
His wings are clipped; he tries no more in vain
With bands of fiddlers to extend his train.
Since he no more can build, and plant, and revel,
The Duke and Dean seem near upon a level.
Oh! wert thou not a duke, my good Duke Humphry,

Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony
That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray--
Though thou sphere-descended be--
Hence away!--
Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay,
Born when earth was seiz'd with cholic;
Or as more sapient sages say,
What time the Legion diabolic
Compell'd their beings to enshrine
In bodies vile of herded swine,
Precipitate adown the steep
With hideous rout were plunging in the deep,
And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell
Seiz'd on the ear with horrible obtrusion;--
Then if aright old legendaries tell,

'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
Unclos'd to keep the weary eye;
But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
In rattling coach is harder yet.
Slumbrous God of half-shut eye!
Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
Soother sweet of toil and care
Listen, listen to my prayer;
And to thy votary dispense
Thy soporific influence!
What tho' around thy drowsy head
The seven-fold cap of night be spread,
Yet lift that drowsy bead awhile
And yawn propitiously a smile;
In drizzly rains poppean dews
O'er the tired inmates of the Coach diffuse;

O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze,
I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
On thee full oft with fixéd eye I gaze
Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.

O first and fairest of the starry choir,
O loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night,
Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
Pure joy and calm Delight?

Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere
Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while
Be all my wish 'mid Fancy's high career
E'en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;

By shores and woods and steeples
Rejoicing hearts receive
Poured on a hundred peoples
The far-shed alms of eve.

Her hands are filled with slumber
For world-wide labourers worn;
Yet those are more in number
That know her not from morn.

Now who sees night for ever,
He sees no happier sight:
Night and no moon and never
A star upon the night.

Three days for an answer I have waited,
I thought an ace you'd ne'er have bated,
And art thou forced to yield, ill-fated
Poetaster?

Henceforth acknowledge, that a nose
Of thy dimension's fit for prose,
But everyone that knows Dan, knows
Thy master.

Blush for ill spelling, for ill lines,
And fly with hurry to Ramines;
Thy fame, thy genius now declines,
Proud boaster.

I hear with some concern you roar,
And flying think to quit the score,
By clapping billets on your door
And posts, sir.

Spare me, dread angel of reproof,
And let the sunshine weave to-day
Its gold-threads in the warp and woof
Of life so poor and gray.

Spare me awhile; the flesh is weak.
These lingering feet, that fain would stray
Among the flowers, shall some day seek
The strait and narrow way.

Take off thy ever-watchful eye,
The awe of thy rebuking frown;
The dullest slave at times must sigh
To fling his burdens down;

To drop his galley's straining oar,
And press, in summer warmth and calm,
The lap of some enchanted shore