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And so he did and won it too,
For he got first to town,
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up
He did again get down.
Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he,
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
LABOUR IN VAIN.
An excellent New Song, to a Tune never sung before.
I sing of a journey to Clifton,
We would have perform'd if we could,
Without cart or barrow to lift on
Poor Mary and me through the mud;
Slee sla slud,
Stuck in the mud,
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood !
So away we went, slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs. 'Tis near as good walking as riding, When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about, But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!
Well! now I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves !
That cloud, though, is rather alarming ;
How slowly and stately it moves!
Pshaw! never mind;
'Tis not in the wind; We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.
I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end.
The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way.
But now I begin to be frighted :
If I fall, what a way I should roll !
I am glad that the bridge was indicted.-
Stop! stop! I am sunk in a hole !
Nay, never care !
'Tis a common affair ; You'll not be the last that will set a foot there.
Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do.
That terrible lane, I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through!
So think I;
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try.
SHE. But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past, Slipping and sliding; and if we should come To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last.
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
That struggling and striving is labour in vain.
HE. Stick fast there, while I go
Don't go away, for fear I should fall !
I have examined it every nook,
And what have here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round;
The dirt we have found Would be an estate at a farthing a pound.
Now, Sister Anne, the guitar you must take ;
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song.
I have varied the verse for variety sake,
And cut it off short, because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame, For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the
FOUNDED ON A FACT, WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779.
WHERE Humber pours his rich commercial stream,
There dwelt a wretch, who breathed but to blaspheme.
In subterraneous caves his life he led,
Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread.
When on a day, emerging from the deep,
A sabbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !)
"The wages of his weekly toil he bore
To buy a cock—whose blood might win him more;
As if the noblest of the feather’d kind
Were but for battle and for death design'd;
As if the consecrated hours were meant
For sport, to minds on cruelty intent.
It chanced, (such chances Providence obey,)
He met a fellow-labourer on the way,
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed,
But now the savage temper was reclaim'd.
Persuasion on his lips had taken place ;
For all plead well who plead the cause of grace.
His iron-heart with Scripture he assaild,
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail’d.
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,
Swift as the lightning-glimpse the arrow flew.
He wept; he trembled ; cast his eyes around,
To find a worse than he; but none he found.
He felt his sins, and wonder'd he should feel.
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal.
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies!
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's prize.
That holy day was wash'd with many a tear,
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear.
The next his swarthy brethren of the mine
Learn’d by his alter'd speech, the change divine,
Laugh'd when they should have wept, and swore the day
Was nigh when he would swear as fast as they.
"No," said the penitent: "such words shall share
This breath no more; devoted now to prayer.
O! if thou seest, (thine eye the future sees,)
That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these,
Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel,
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel;
Now take me to that Heaven I once defied,
Thy presence, thy embrace !"—He spoke and died !