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All in a garden, on a currant bush,

With wonderous art they build their airy seat; In the next orchard lived a friendly thrush,

Nor distant fur a woodlark's soft retreat. . Here blest with ease, and in each other blest, With early songs they waked the neighb’ring

groves, Till time matured their joys, and crown'd their

nest With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

And now what transport glow'd in either's eye!

What equal fondness dealt the allotted food! What joy each others' likenes, to descry,

And future sonnets in the chirping brood !.

But ah, what earthly happiness can last!

How does the fairest purpose often fail ! A truant schoolboy's wantonness could blast Their flattering hopes, and leave them both to


The most ungentle of his tribe was he,

No generous precept ever touch'd his heart, With concored false, and hideous prosody

He scrawl'd his task, and blunder'd o'er his


On mischief bent, he mark’d, with ravenous eyes,

Where wrapt in down the callow songsters lay, Then rushing rudely seized the glittering prize,

And bore it in his impious hands away!

But how shall I describe, in numbers rude,

The pangs for poor Chrysomitris decieed,
When from her secret stand aghast she view'd

The cruel spoiler perpetrate the deed?

O grief of griefs !' with shrieking voice she cried,

“ What sight is this that I have liv'd to see! " O! that I had in youth's fair season died,

“ From love's false joys, and bitter sorrows free.


“ Was it for this, alas ! with weary bill,

“ Was it for this pois’d the unwieldy straw? For this I bore the moss from yonder hill, « Nor shunn'd the pond'rous stick along to

draw ?

“ Was it for this I peck'd the wool with care,

“ Intent with nicer skill our work to crown; " For this, with pain, I bent the stubborn hair,

" And lined our cradle with the thistle's down.. “ Was it for this my freedom I resign'd,

“ And ceased to rove at large from plain to plain ; “ For this I sat at home whole days confin'd,

To bear the scorching heat, and pelting rain?

“ Was it for this my watchful eyes grew dim?

“ For this the roses on my cheek turn'd pale? «r Pale is my golden plumage, once so trim!

“ And all my wonted mirth and spirits fail.

“ O plunderer vile! O more than adders fell ! More murderous than the cat, with prudish

face! « Fiercer than kites in whom the furies dwell,

“ And thievish as the cuckow's pilfering race!

May juicy plumbs for thee forbear to grow,

" For thee no flower unveil its charming dies, “May birch-trees thrive to work thee sharper woe,

And listening starlings mock thy frantick cries.

“ Thus sang the mornful bird her piteous tale,

“ The piteous tale her mournful mate return'd, “ Then side by side they sought the distant vale,

And there in secret sadness inly mourn'd.".



This Doctor in Divinity is characterized as having been “ possessed of exquisite humour with a strong inclination for punning.” He published, The Kite, a poem, 1719. then five Dramatick Pieces; The Foxes—The Insign:fi. cants — The Trial of the Time-killers — The Moral Quack— The Duellists, 1757 : afterwards collected in one volume, and entitled, Humourous Ethicks. The Snipe and the Song of Similies, in the Oxford Sausage are his, and the Friar in the first Ballad, is intended for himself.



Tune - Abbot of Canterbury.
· I'll tell you a Story, a Story that's true,

A Story that's dismal ; yet comical too ;
It is of a Friar, who some people think,
Tho'as sweet as a nut, might have died of a stink.

Derry down, down, hey derry down,

This Friar would often go out with his gun,
And tho' no great Marksman, he thought himself

one ; For tho' he for ever was wont to miss aim, Still something, but never himself, was to blame.

Derry down, down, 'hey derry down.

It happen'd young Peter, a friend of the Friar's, With legs arm’d with leather, for fear of the briars, Went out with him once, tho' it signifies not Where he hired his gun, or who tick'd for the


Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Away these two trudged it, o'er hills and o'er dales, They popt at the Partridges, frighten'd the Quails, But to tell you the truth, no great mischief was

done, Save spoiling the Proverb, as sure as a Gun.'

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

But at length a poor Snipe flew direct in the way, In open defiance, as if he would say “ If only the Friar and Peter are there, “ I'll Ay where I list, there's no reason to fear,"

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

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